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KITTY THE RAG 






I/ITTY 


THE RAG 


BY 

“RITA” 

AUTHOR OF “SHEBA,” “ A WOMAN IN IT,” “ MASTER WIUBFR- 
FORCE,” “DAME DURDEN,” ETC. 



NEW YORK 

R. F. FKNNO & COMPANY 

1 12 FIFTH AVENUE 
Eondon: HUTCHINSON & CO. 





Copyright, 1897 

BY 

R. F. FFNNO & company 


KITTY THE RAG. 


CHAPTER I. 

Get in out of that, ye little blayguard — ye.'* 

I’ll not get in — I want to see Biddy,” said a childish 
voice. 

Biddy '11 not be home this hour an’ more. Get along as 
I tould ye, an’ don’t be disgracin’ the place wid yer dirty face 
and yer rags. Shure, here’s the quality cornin’. Be off wid 
ye ! ” 

I want to see — I want to see — I will see,” in ever-rising 
notes of shrillness, as the carriage drove rapidly by. 

For an instant a proud, lovely face flashed by in the sun- 
light. Eyes supremely scornful, supremely cold, rested on the 
two figures leaning over the broken railings — one grey and 
wrinkled with a broken-down hat and a pipe to match, the 
other young with childhood’s matchless youth — a face glow- 
ing with vivid life between a mass of tangled elf locks — all 
else rags and dirt that matched her companion. 

Then the carriage rolled on, and the eager curiosity left be- 
hind exploded into a hundred questions. 

Who is she, gran’ father ? Wasn’t she beautiful intirely? 
An’ the grand dress av her ! Oh ! 1 wish Biddy had seen her. 
Is it living at the big house she’ll be ? Why hasn’t she iver 
been here before? ” 

*<Ah, child, divil take yer tongue,” was the impatient 
though not ill-humored answer. Ye’ve as many questions 
on it as ’ud puzzle the Pope of Rome. Who is she ye wants 
to know. She’s Mr. Marsden’s daughter — the one that made 
the grand marriage two years ago — an’ lives in London, where 
the Quane is. Now are ye satisfied ? ” 

Who is the Quane ? ” asked the child. 

“She’s a mighty grand person who owns all av this country 
an’ a power o’ others — an’ has never done us a haporth av 
good in her life,” was the comprehensive answer. “I wish 
we had the chance o’ seeing her, an’ tellin’ her a bit o’ our 

( 5 ) 


KITTY THE BAG. 


minds— but faith, she’s too afraid of plain spakin’ to vinture 
within a hundred miles av an Irish tongue. ’Tis only for- 
eigners they say can plaize her. She’s been actin’ dog in the 
manger with poor ould Ireland these fifty years an’ more. 
She’ll not do anything for it herself, nor let us do anything for 
it widout her ! ” 

“Ah! niver mind about her!” exclaimed the child pet- 
tishly. “ Tell me more about the beautiful lady an’ the big 
house yonder. It didn’t always belong to Mr. Marsden, did 
it?” 

“ Belong, is it ? Shure the rightful owner is as poor as the 
best av us now. Belong? No; the dacent gintleman had 
mortgaged ivery acre av it an’ thin the whole property was 
bought by Mr. Marsden. He came here wid his wife. A fine 
handsome lady she was, too, — an’ the fine family she had, but 
shure they’re all dead or turned out bad. Divil a bit o’ luck 
the place brought him, an’ sarve him right ! ” 

“ Why, what harm did he do?” asked the child’s logical 
brain. “If the other man had no money 'twas very kind of 
Mr. Marsden to buy his property from him.” 

“ Much ye know about it. To be pratin’ o’ rights an’ 
wrongs at yer age. Git in wid ye now, an’ see to the praties ; 
Biddy ’ll be home soon, an’ wantin’ her supper maybe.” 

The child turned reluctantly into the wretched cottage. The 
sunset had faded, the sky was growing dim. The carriage had 
long since disappeared. She went about the preparation for 
the evening meal with even more than her usual dislike for the 
sordid surroundings and poverty-stricken fare that made up the 
sum total of her life. She had never known anything else but 
poverty, nor any surroundings that were not sordid. 

A tattered, wild-looking, mischievous elf — parentless, so she 
had been told — unloved save by one kind womanly heart — the 
heart of Biddy Maguire. Such was the station in life in which 
Providence had seen fit to place “ Kitty the Rag.” 

That had been her nicknanie ever since she could remember, 
as characteristic of herself as most Irish pseudonyms are. For 
she was but a rag — a mass of tatters, bare-footed, bare-headed 
— with the wild beauty of face and eyes obliterated by dirt — 
and instincts for ever battling with her surroundings. 

Yet she was not unhappy. Few children are who have lib- 
erty of action, even though it may be combined with scanty 
fare and the manifold hardships of poverty. 

Her nature was one of sturdy independence that gave promise 


KITTY THE BAG. 


7 


of future strength — the strength of womanhood, unsheltered by- 
aught but its own instincts. There was little softness or affec- 
tion in it. She loved but two living creatures in her world of 
humanity. One was a half-blind cur she had once rescued, 
the other was the woman who had adopted her. She was 
known throughout the district as “ Biddy, the dalin’ woman.” 
Biddy was a character in her way. She gained her own liveli- 
hood and kept an idle husband with strong political opinions 
by attending auctions and buying all manner of odd but gener- 
ally useful articles, which she sold again to the neighbors or 
country-side at a small profit. She was keen witted, thrifty 
and honest. Warm hearted and warm tempered, like most of 
her race, she asked but little of life, and it gave it her gener- 
ously, and reaped in return such measure of gratitude as few 
of its more prosperous children deign to bestow. 

She had had but one child, a son, and had idolized him 
somewhat too idolatrously for his own good. He had been 
well educated, and was a great favorite with the priest. Father 
Dillon, by reason of his quickness, his handsome face and beau- 
tiful voice. This voice had been of inestimable value on saints’ 
days and festivals, and the music of the little chapel had never 
been so well organized or performed as when handsome Eugene 
Maguire had lent his voice and talent to its service. There had 
been great surprise and talk in the village when the said hand- 
some Eugene had suddenly gone off to America. 

His mother was singularly reticent on the subject. She 
affirmed it was for ‘‘ his good,” and she appeared to have no 
difficulty in the matter of passage money, or outfit. In any 
case Eugene went off with scant time for leave-taking, and in 
company with Father Dillon, who took him to Queenstown 
and saw him off in the mail boat. He had been away eight 
years, and his mother’s beautiful brown hair had whitened 
strangely ; and his father was still idle and discontented, and 
the enemy of wealthy landowners and such stewards and agents 
as have the agreeable duty appointed them of collecting rents 
from Irish peasantry. 

He had a cottage, a small garden, and a fair-sized potato 
plot. He was, according to his neighbors, fairly well off, but 
no one ever heard a thankful word from his lips. 

He had one endless grievance. In one of her dalin’ expe- 
ditions Biddy had come across a poor girl dying, so she said, 
with a babe at her breast. She had been deceived and deserted, 
and was paying the penalty of the Cigale’s ” bri^f summer. 


8 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Biddy brought the child home, and reared it and tended it 
with such love and care as she might have lavished on her own. 
To her husband’s grumbling she paid no heed. She made 
money enough to feed the extra mouth, so she said, and that 
being an undeniable fact the idle loafer had to content himself 
with ill-treating the child during her unavoidable absences, and 
encouraging a tendency for dirt, and a perfect genius for the 
destruction of garments, that used to drive poor Biddy to despair 
when she came home again. 

The odd bundles and parcels with which she would be laden 
were always a source of delight to the child. She would ran- 
sack them for flimsy bits of lace and ribbon, old artificial 
flowers, faded odds and ends of discarded finery with which 
to deck herself out — and thus attired would parade the street, 
to the delight and envy of the other children. Their only re- 
venge was to call her by the nickname of her babyhood, and 
at last she grew up quite proud of the title, and refused to be 
known by any other. 

On this eventful evening, when the arrival of a visitor had 
inflamed her curiosity so strangely, she was expecting Biddy 
back with unusual impatience. The gift of a frock had been 
promised her if she would keep the cottage tidy and refrain 
from the usual process of “shredding ” her own garments. 

The cottage was certainly clean. She had thrown pails of 
water over the brick floor, and polished up the chairs and table, 
and washed the few plates and cups, and scoured the two sauce- 
pans and the kettle which made up the sum of kitchen utensils. 

As for herself, she had entirely forgotten the necessity for 
“clainin’ up” under the stress of this wonderful event at the 
big house. She was as dirty and as ragged as any urchin in 
the place ; but for once Biddy seemed to have no eyes for that 
as she folded her to her warm womanly heart, and kissed the 
ruddy mouth and brown soft cheeks again and again. 

“It was just hungerin’ for ye T was, darlin’,” she cried 
passionately, as she at last released her. “ ’Twas a long week, 
an’ a long tramp— though I’m not the one to be complainin’, 
thank the Lord, for a tidy bargain I’ve made, and a gould 
sovereign here, all profit— an’ faith, ’tisn’t many can say that 
same these hard bad times.” 

Then they sat down to potato^es and tea, and a red herring 
for Maguire himself, and she related the history of her travels 
and the last auction, in the picturesque and forcible style of 
her class. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


9 


Kitty listened impatiently ; she only wanted her frock, and 
it seemed as if supper would never come to an end. But at 
last the plates were cleared, and the last potato finished. Then 
came the delightful moment when the bundle was opened and 
its heterogeneous contents, for which neither market nor cus- 
tomer had been found, were poured out on the cottage floor. 
Nothing was too extraordinary or too useless for the Dalin’ 
Woman to purchase. Old ties, medical books, scraps of 
finery, discarded table napery, old boots and shoes, pewter 
spoons and plates, odd gloves, cutlery, battered novels, suits of 
clothes, these and countless other articles were poured out on 
the floor. Among them all was one gleaming bit of color that 
caught the child’s eye. She made a pounce at it and dragged 
it forth, and then stood staring, enraptured at the treasure. 

‘*Yes, honey, ’tis that same,” said Biddy. “ The frock I 
promised ye. Shure it’s fit for a lady of the county, it is. A 
trifle large for ye I’m thinkin’, darlin’, but none the worse for 
that, seeing ye’re a fast growing colleen. An’ ye’ll jist clean 
yer face an’ hands, an’ tidy yer hair a bit, we’ll put it on ye 
an’ see how it looks.” 

The child flew off to perform her ablutions with wonderful 
zeal, and still more wonderful results. 

Soap and water left revealed a face and throat beautiful as 
one of Murillo’s famed cherubs — the hard and vigorous appli- 
cation of a brush out of the dalin’ woman’s store of luxuries 
showed a mass of gold brown hair, waving and shimmering 
round her shoulders, instead of hanging in tangled strands as 
usual. 

Then Biddy arrayed her in the scarlet frock which was after 
all a fairly good fit. It hung in straight loose folds fitted into 
a square yoke of velvet of the same color. The velvet was 
worn and shabby, the cashmere stained and marked, but in 
the evening light and the glow of the embers from the open 
hearth, these defects were not visible. Biddy surveyed her 
with unconcealed pride that second-hand possessions had no 
power to chill. 

The child listened impatiently. She was eager to be out of 
doors, and try the effect of her dazzling appearance on her 
compeers round about. When Biddy had grown tired of ad- 
miring the frock she wanted to remove it, but her efforts were 
the signal for rebellion, and the child firmly resisted her per- 
suasions. Finally she made a spring from detaining hands, 
and reached the door. There she paused a moment — the hues 


10 


KITTY THE BAG, 


of saffron from the sky beyond mingling with the scarlet glow 
of the loose folds that fluttered round her. So brilliant a pic- 
ture she made that the dalin’ woman remained transfixed, gaz- 
ing at her half in rapture, half in fear. 

Then an elfish laugh escaped the mocking lips, and the pal- 
ing sunset shone through an open doorway. 

Biddy sighed. Then she returned to her purchases, sorting 
out such articles as were likely to be of use to her neighbors, 
and adding the useless odds and ends to a store which formed 
the collection of years, and clamored for an auction of its own. 

Meanwhile the child flew down the village street like a bril- 
liant meteor, creating a sensation such as she had never dreamt 
of. But she had no mind to stay even for admiration. She 
had an object in view, and to achieve it was her present intent. 
With swift, unheeding feet she flew on and on, deaf alike to 
questions or entreaties. 

She reached the end of the village street, and came to where 
a road ran between high hedgerows, growing faintly dusk now, 
as the lingering day paled into shadowy twilight. 

For a moment she paused. The road looked so long, the 
screening boughs were so heavy ; no living thing was visible 
anywhere, nor any sound to be heard save the faint twitter of 
some wandering bird. 

The child drew a deep breath. 

Then she resumed her rapid run. The road branched off 
at last. It followed a curving line past a series of fields where 
the corn was breast high. Then came a copse full of rustling 
sounds of birds’ wings or speeding rabbits, and beyond that 
were the boundaries of miles of iron fencing backed by a 
hedge carefully kept and revelling in the luxuriance of sum- 
mer’s newly given treasures. 

The child paused. 

Ingress and exit were alike made difficult here, and intruders 
were warned by perpetual notice’ boards of penalties incurred. 
Unpopularity has no defence save the fears it can enforce, and 
Philip Marsden was certainly unpopular. ‘ His very justice and 
strictness and straight dealing made him so. 

The Irish path of reasoning is decidedly a crooked one, 
and to a sense of virtue the imputation of * trespassing ” is 
practically unjustifiable. 

The child had never in her life paid the least attention to 
notice boards or proprietary fences. She had not the slightest 
intention of making an exception tQ her rule as yet. 


KITTY THE RAO. 


11 


By dint of squeezing and climbing and doing considerable 
damage to the hedge and herself, she worked her way into the 
park, and from thence to the terrace facing the great white 
stone building that was the goal of her evening’s expedition. 

She crept along, shielding herself from observation by means 
of shrubs or bushes or the large terrace urns that held such 
wealth of fragrance and color. 

Suddenly she came in view of a row of windows ; within 
were numerous lights. The blinds were not down, and she 
saw a large room full of beautiful and wonderful things. A 
table spread with dazzling damask and glass and silver, the 
glow of wax candles shedding a soft brilliance over flowers 
and fruit. At this table were seated a man and a woman. 

She had eyes only for the woman. For the proud pale face 
and dark gleaming eyes, for the lovely head crowned by a 
wealth of chestnut hair, for the glowing jewels on the white 
throat, the lustre of satin from the splendid gown trailing like 
a gleam of moonlight over the rich-hued carpet. 

Nearer and nearer crept the intruder. The color came and 
went in her face like a flame blown by a passing breath. .Her 
eyes, dark as deep waters, gazed absorbedly at the scene be- 
fore her. The rich appointments of the room, the liveries of 
the servants, the cold hard face of the master of it all, the 
proud indifference of the beautiful woman. 

Every bit of color, every atom of detail seemed to set itself 
in the child’s mind as bits of mosaic in a pattern they form. 
She felt it as one feels a picture — she envied it with a sudden 
passionate envy that struck the keynote of discontent. 

** Why are these people fortunate and not I? ” 

It is the cry of an enduring and unfortunate humanity to its 
wealthier and less deserving brotherhood. 

It was the cry that stirred to birth this childish, untutored 
soul, and with that cry a throbbing, torturing personality 
leaped into life in place of the waif and stray of poverty who 
had known herself only, up to that moment, as Kitty the 
Rag." 


12 


KITTY THE BAG, 


CHAPTER II. 

The footman and butler had withdrawn. Father and 
daughter faced each other. It was the first time for two years 
they had been alone. 

Though totally unlike in appearance, there was a curious 
likeness of expression in the two faces. Both had that look 
of intense pride — that over-cultured delicacy of refined senses 
— that half scornful, half weary curl of lip — that listless grace 
of movement. 

The man had passed middle age by a decade. The woman 
was in the very prime and zenith of womanly beauty. 

He was watching her intently. There had always been a 
trace of antagonism in their relationship. She never remem- 
bered having met with sympathy or consideration at his hands. 
He was a man of superficially cultured mind, keen intelligence, 
and refined selfishness. He had none of that large compre- 
hension for the sufferings of others that makes a beautiful na- 
ture also a lovable one. 

His charity was a thing of necessity, enforced by a certain 
position and recognized wealth. It brought him no gratitude 
in return, and no increase of popularity. People often won- 
dered why he had chosen to settle in Ireland, but he never 
gave any reason for the whim, and he was not an easy man to 
question. 

He watched her peeling a peach with those white taper 
fingers so like his own. 

You will find it very dull here, Hermia,” he said at last. 

“ It will be a change,” she said coldly. She did not look 
up ; she finished peeling the fruit and commenced to eat it. 

You still appreciate the charms of contrast, then ? ” 

“I suppose so,” she said. '‘lam sick of a bedizened so- 
ciety. I know its every trick, its every pretence. I remem- 
bered there was a pulse of real life beating here, in this remote 
Irish village. I felt I should like to hear that beat, to get 
some fresh pure air, after the stifling horrors of London and 
Paris.” 

“You will get the breath of pigsties,” he said in a curious 


KITTY THE EAG. 


13 


voice. “ But I thought you had lost your taste for them long 
ago.” 

A flush, hot and painful, seemed to burn her cheek for a 
second’s space. The slender fingers closed on the delicate 
silver knife. she held. 

“I think,” she said hoarsely, “you might spare me — 
that.” 

**Ah ! my dear Hermia,” he answered, ^‘you can hardly 
expect me to believe you are very sensitive. But I will not hint 
at bygones if you are offended. I will only say that after 
having cast off the dust of this ‘ happy isle ’ from your shoes 
two years ago, with a declaration that you would never return 
to it, I was surprised to get a letter proposing a visit — by your- 
self.” 

** Lord Ellingsworth will be here next week,” she said 
quietly. 

** Oh ! And how long do you propose remaining ? ” 

don’t know,” she said wearily. ^‘Till the end of the 
month, perhaps ; unless you are tired of us.” 

‘‘It is the first time you have honored my roof since your 
marriage,” he said. “I could scarcely be wearied of you in 
three weeks.” 

He paused, but she made no response. 

“ I was wondering,” he went on presently as he sipped his 
Chambertin, “why you chose this time of the year. There 
will be nothing for Ellingsworth to do — no hunting — no shoot- 
ing.” 

Her delicate brows drew together in a swift frown. 

“Is it quite impossible,” she said petulantly, “for a man 
to exist two weeks in the country without having something 
to kill?” 

“ In the country — yes. That is why sport is so moral, and 
idleness so dangerous.” 

“ Ellingsworth is quite safe,” she said with a scornful curl 
of the beautiful lips. “His morality will be proof even 
against a dearth of bloodshed — and an absence of clubs.” 

“ Is he still so devoted — and after two years? ” 

Again that hot flush dyed her face. 

“It is a humiliating confession,” she said, “ but he is. I 
can imagine you don’t credit it. You were never a believer in 
conjugal fidelity.” 

It was his turn to wince now under the steady challenge of 
those mocking eyes. 


14 


KITTY THE BAG, 


‘ * I had good reason not to be, ’ ’ he said bitterly. 

“ I think,” she said quietly, that your lot was a remark- 
ably fortunate one. Of course one can only judge by com- 
parison.” 

It would be better to judge by results,” he answered. 

I noticed you have made many more improvements here,” 
she said presently, as she laid down the dessert knife, and 
leant back in her chair. 

It is never-ending work to improve this property,” he said 
impatiently. And one gets no gratitude and little return.” 

She half smiled. “ The Irish want a lot of understand- 
ing,” she said. ** I think my mother told you M^/when you 
first resolved on coming here.” 

He frowned darkly. 

“They may understand each other,” he said harshly. “ I 
defy any other nation on God's earth to comprehend them.” 

“That seems to say that there is still one country on the 
civilized globe where man retains his primitive savage virtues, 
and can afford to laugh at the orthodox civilized vices,” she 
answered. 

“Of course,” he said. “I know your sympathies are all 
on their side. They always were. But however admirable in 
theory, they would be somewhat irksome to practice. If you 
once allowed a tenant to prey on your compassion he would 
simply smoke his pipe, let his ground take care of itself, and 
allow you the privilege of keeping his family and himself on 
the condition that you never claimed your rent in return.” 

“ I can’t agree with you,” she said. “ They are malleable 
enough if you go the right way to work.” 

“You have found them so I have no doubt,” he answered, 
with that scorn she hated on his thin lips. 

“Would it not be better, father,” she said abruptly, “to 
drop the past altogether put of our discussion ? It is not a 
pleasant memory for either of us. You exacted heavy pay- 
ment from me, and I gave it you. I have never complained. 
I never shall complain. I won’t even remind you that the 
love and sympthy of home life were almost unknown to me 
at the very crisis when a girl’s life most needs such things. 
Can’t you be generous enough to forgive — to seem to forget ? 
You know I have carried out my part of the bargain to the 
letter.” 

She rose as she finished speaking, and stood with one hand 
resting lightly on the chair, her splendid figure and her beau- 


RITTY THE BAG. 


15 


tiful face outlined against the dusky background of damask 
draperies and closing night. 

For a moment he looked at her keenly — steadily. 

There was but one thought in his mind — If she were not 
so like her mother ; if I knew — if I were sure." 

As one drop of aconite embitters a glass of water, so one 
thought of jealousy poisons a human heart. 

Long brooding over a fancied wrong had so poisoned the 
heart of Philip Marsden. His wife had died unforgiven for 
such a fancied wrong. His daughter stood for ever in his 
sight as a further transgression. 

Of pity or of pardon he was alike incapable. 

Seeing he made no answer she moved slowly away to the 
door. He rose and opened it. For one instant their eyes 
met ; she half extended her hand. 

“Oh, father, let it be peace ! ” she cried impulsively. “I 
have fulfilled my part of the compact ; have I not ? ” 

“Yes," he said, “you have done all you promised. Let 
it be — peace ! " 

But he did not seem to notice the outstretched hand, and 
there was more mockery than courtesy in the bow with which 
he drew back, and let her pass into the hall beyond. 

Then he closed the door on her trailing skirts and sat down 
once more to his wine — and his reflections. 

A face pressed against the window frame withdrew silently 
as the door closed. A flash of crimson shone for a moment 
in the clear lustre of the risen moon. Then silently and softly, 
as she had come, the child sped homewards. 

Biddy was standing at the cottage door, looking anxiously 
up and down the road, when she at last came in sight. A 
storm of questions and reproaches greeted her. 

“ And himself gone to bed this hour an’ more," concluded 
Biddy. “ Shure, child, it’s lost intirely I thought ye were ! 
Where did ye go to at all ? ’’ 

“ To the big house yonder," said the child slowly. 

She was tired and pale, but her eyes glowed feverishly, her 
face had a strange, set look. 

“ Biddy," she said, drawing a wooden stool up to the still 
smouldering turf in the fireplace, “ I want to talk to you. I 
want you to tell me something. I’m glad he’s gone to bed. 
Now sit there ’’ — she pointed to the old wooden settle — “and 
listen." 

The old woman did as she was bid. She leant forward, her 


16 


mTTY THE EAQ, 


arms folded in the skirt of her gown, and watched the grave 
puzzled face before her with a worshipping adoration, almost 
painful in its intensity. 

Biddy, Ive seen the beautiful lady again. She’s come 
back.” 

Thrue for ye. I heard that. It’s staying with her father 
she is,” answered Biddy. 

“ I went to see her,” continued the child. I got into the 
grounds, and looked through the window. Oh, Biddy, it was 
all so grand, so beautiful, and she — she just sat there as if she 
cared nothing for it at all, and jewels shining on her neck, 
and her dress like silver it was, all trailing about her. Biddy, 
why aren’t we rich like that ? ” 

Ah, the Lord save ye, child. What are ye talkin’ of? 
Shure there’s always rich and poor— the quality and the 
beggars. ’Tisn’t for the likes o’ us to be askin’ why, darlin’. 
It’s Life as the blessed Lord mint it to be — and don’t ye be 
gettin’ notions o’ that sort into yer head, for sorra a bit o’ 
good will they do ye.” 

**A11 sorts of things come and go in my head,” said the 
child wistfully. I hate being poor, Biddy. I want to be 
like that lady — I want to have a beautiful house, and jewels, 
and servants, and satin gowns, and ” 

‘^Ah, glory be to God ! What are ye talkin’ like that for? 
It’s a sin for ye, child, and ye’ve no call to do it. Shure, 
ye’ve niver wanted the bit nor sup since ye came here — an’ 
'tis me heart’s blood I’d give to make ye happy. Riches is 
mighty decavin’, child. Niver ye be cravin’ for them. Doesn’t 
Father Dillon say that they’re at the bottom of all the crimes 
an’ all the sins in the wurrld? ” 

Biddy,” broke in the peremptory voice again, ** whose 
child am I? ” 

The dalin ’ woman’s face turned ghastly even under its tan 
of sun and wind. 

“ In the name o’ goodness why do ye ask that ? ” she said 
huskily. 

“ I know I’m not yours,” Kitty went on. The neighbors 
say you found me and brought me here out of kindness. Who 
was my mother? Do you know ? ” 

“ The saints presarve us ! How did ye come to be thinkin’ 
sich things, Kitty agra? ’Tis surely bewitched ye are ! ” 

“You don’t answer me, Biddy. Ah! you must. Who 
was my mother ? Is she dead ? ” 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


17 


She is dead — to you, darlin’. Ah, don’t be draggin’ the 
story out of me wid thim pladin’ eyes. I’ll tell ye it straight 
an’ thrue some day. But not now. Ye wudn’t understand it 
now, darlin’.” 

The child drew a deep breath. *‘Some day ! That’s no 
time at all. Ah, Biddy, and I want to learn — I want to go to 
school — I want to be a lady. I can’t wait. I must know.” 

Biddy shook her head. “ I’ve sworn solemnly not to tell,” 
she said. “ I can’t break my oath, darlin’. Ye must contint 
yerself as ye are.” 

**I won’t — I can’t. I shall run away ! ” cried the child 
tempestuously. 

“ Is it breakin’ my heart ye’d be? ” exclaimed the old wo- 
man sorrowfully. “ Shure, child, an oath’s an oath, and I’ve 
never broken my word yet for man or woman — for praste or 
penance. Can’t ye contint yerself as ye are? I never thought 
ye were unhappy.” 

‘‘lam! I always am ! I hate this dirty hole. I hate the 
children. I hate being called what they call me ! ” 

She burst into passionate sobs — into a storm of rage, envy, 
and invective that fairly startled Biddy. Long repression was 
taking vengeance at last. The starved nature had awakened 
to a knowledge of its own desires, and the poor trembling 
woman who had only love to give recognized how valueless 
and poor a gift it seems to youth’s selfish exactions. 

Paler and paler she grew. Her heart was trying to frame a 
resolve that meant death to cherished hopes ; the renunciation 
of all life’s joy. 

When the sobs had ceased at last, she drew the exhausted 
child to her bosom. 

“Whisht ye now, dearie . . . don’t be after frettin’ any 
more. Shure what does Biddy live for but yer happiness? If 
she can’t give it ye, she must get it for ye. . . . ’Tis a hard 
task ye’ve set me, darlin’ — but shure I’m not the one to flinch 
from it. Now go to bed, and slape, and the saints comfort ye. 
I’ll just have a quiet think over a pipe, and maybe in the 
mornin’ there’ll be some gran’ news for ye, mavourneen.” 

The child was weary with her long tramp and her recent 
outburst of passion. She passively submitted to the removal 
of the new frock, and then went up to her little straw mattress 
in the loft above, and curled herself up, and was fast asleep 
long ere Biddy’s pipe had ceased to glow in the dark little 
kitchen. 

2 


18 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Meanwhile the Balin’ Woman sat on and on, her eyes on 
the dull embers, her mind one great sea of perplexed and 
troubled thoughts, in which she vainly tried to steer the bark 
of a decision. 

What’s put it in the craythur’s head at all, at all?” she 
muttered. “Shure it’s in the blood, it must be, an’ neither 
praste nor holy water can purge it out. An’ me thinkin’ 
’twould be aisey enough to order the life av her. Ah, glory 
be to God ! ’tis mighty strange we are — mighty strange, an’ 
one’s one thing, an’ one’s another. Ah, Kitty, child, ’twasn’t 
for this I bargained whin I brought ye here — ’twas only of yer 
father’s blood I was thinkin’ ... an’ that ’twas his child ye 
were ... an’ the surprise av him, an’ the pride too, maybe, 
whin he should come back to the ould counthry agin. Eight 
years — eight years. It’s a long time to be widout a word or 
sign. . . . Ah, ’twas God made us mothers, knowin’ we’d 
have a power o’ sufferin’ to go through, but the Blessed Virgin 
maybe gave us the patience to bear it.” 

She removed the pipe and laid it down on her lap. 

There were tears in her eyes, and they rolled slowly down 
the brown sun tanned face and fell unheeded on the upturned 
bowl. 

’Twill wring the heart o’ me intirely,” she went on. 
^*Ah, the miss o’ that bright face, an’ the purty voice, an’ that 
orderiiy, masterful way av her ! But if it’s the blood spakin’ 
sure ’tis no use goin’ agin it. I’ll jist go straight away to the 
big house yonder to-morrow an’ have a word wid the master 
himself. He’s a hard man — may heaven forgive him ! — but 
maybe he’ll give me a bearin’ an’ the price o’ the schoolin’ 
she wants, an’ thin she’ll be contint. She’s that sharp an’ 
that clever ’twasn’t to be expicted as how she’d stay here an’ 
larn nothing; jist satisfyin’ herself wid dirt an’ fun an’ divilry 
like the other children, an’ it’s hard on her whin I’m away 
an only Jim to mind her. ’Twould be different altogither av 
I could stay an’ care for her me own self. Maybe thin she 
wouldn’t be wantin’ to lave me, an’ fill her purty head wid 
lamin’ an’ scholarship an’ sich like.” 

She wiped away the tears, and rose and softly make her way 
to where the child lay sleeping. Then as softly fell on her 
knees and poured out her simple soul in passionate entreaties 
for her welfare and happiness. 

‘'She’ll niver know a mother on earth, O Blessed Mary. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


19 


Be good to her. Oh, be good to her for the sake av yer own 
most blessed Son.” 

So ran her prayer, uttered in all the simplicity of a fervent 
faith that, believing all, accepted all as possible, and took up 
life’s burden with none of the weight of responsibility that the 
wise man and the doubter know. 


20 


KITTY THE BAG, 


CHAPTER III. 

<*Tell her I can’t see her. I’m engaged. I’m busy. 
What’s the use of bringing me these messages, Garry? You 
know my rules.” 

Philip Marsden spoke fretfully — impatiently. He was in 
the library, enjoying the morning papers and a peculiarly fine 
cigar. He did not choose to be disturbed by begging petitions 
or tales of misfortune that threatened postponement of rents. 

The man stood holding the door handle apologetically. 

“Your pardon, sir, but she said that if you knew she was 
Mrs. Maguire — we always call her the Balin’ Woman ” 

Mr. Marsden started ever so slightly. 

“ Maguire,” he said slowly. “ Is she the wife of that idle 
vagabond who’s letting his ground go to rack and ruin while 
he talks Home Rule and Socialism in the public house? ” 

“She is, sir. But she’s a decent, respectable creature 
enough. It’s not her fault that she’s got a bad husband.” 

“ I’ll see her,” said Philip Marsden suddenly. “Show her 
in.” 

There was a curious glitter in his steel grey eyes. He leant 
back in his chair and waited ; his attitude expectant, his face 
calm, and set as a mask. 

In a few moments Garry reappeared, ushering in Biddy 
Maguire, neatly dressed in black, a Paisley shawl draping her 
shoulders despite the warmth of the fine day. 

She dropped a curtsy and then stood looking half wonder- 
ingly at the beautiful and' luxurious appointments of the room. 

“ Well ? ” said Philip Marsden sharply. “ May I ask what 
is your business? ” 

“Maybe you’ll remember me, sir?” she said quietly. 
“You’ll remember askin’ me to do ye a sarvice ” 

“ I might know by this time,” he said coldly, “ that to ask 
any Irish person to do you a service is to burden yourself with 
a perpetual obligation. But of course I know to what you al- 
lude. I paid you well.” 

“You did, sir. I’m not ungrateful. It’s not to remind 
you of meself I’m come. It’s to ask your favor for — for some 
one else.” 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


21 


** If it’s for your good-for-nothing husband you are wasting 
your time and mine to no purpose.” 

Jim, is it? Shure, sir, I’m not reduced to axin’ anything 
from anybody’s hands for him either.” 

** Then perhaps you’ll tell me what it is you want.” 

** I want you to do an act of kindness for — for a child I’ve 
the care of, sir. To pay for a bit o’ schoolin’ and better 
bringin’ up than I can give her. The saints know she’s wel- 
come to all I have, but I’ve to work hard, sir, and I’m only a 
poor woman, and Jim, he’s not much ov a help.” 

Mr. Marsden laughed scornfully. 

** It’s a pretty cool request,” he said. ^‘May I ask why I 
should interest myself in any child — or grandchild, I suppose 
it must be — of yours, Mrs. Maguire? ” 

** You’ve spoken the truth, sir; it’s my grandchild I’m 
pleadin’ for, though not a sowl knows it, even my own hus- 
band.” 

“ And why am I favored with this secret? ” 

‘‘You use a power o’ grand words, sir, and a poor woman 
like me isn’t much of a scholar. But I think you ought to 
know who the child is as well as I do, Mr. Marsden.” 

Their eyes met. A keen searching look seemed to flash 
from soul to soul. 

He took the cigar from between his lips, flicked off the ash 
with one delicate finger, then replaced it. 

“Will you answer me a few questions? ” he said. 

“Truth and I will, sir. It’s for that I’m here.” 

“To begin with. You rendered me a certain service some 
years ago, nine or ten I believe. I paid you for it handsomely, 
on a certain condition.” 

“The condition you might have made for a litter of pups 
or a breed of kittens, sir. Drown them, get rid of them, don’t 
let me hear or see ’em again. But a little human soul can’t 
be treated like a kitten. It made its struggle for life, and it 
lived.” 

His brows drew darkly together. “ You mean to tell me 
that child is alive ? ” 

“ ’Tis Gospel truth, sir, as I’m an honest woman.” 

“ And you have taken charge of it? ” 

“I have, sir. Now perhaps you’ll be after understandin’ 
what I said about schoolin’, and the better housing of her. 
Blood will spake out, Mr. Marsden, there’s no denying it; 
and ’tisn’t in her nature to be contint with what I can give 


22 


KITTY THE BAG, 


her. Shure 'tis a poor home enough. But I’m not un- 
thankful.” 

Her eyes turned to the luxurious appointments of this room, 
with its mixture of Sybarite ease and artistic fitness. 

I’m not askin’ for much, sir,” she said. 

*<No,” he said thoughtfully. I was not debating the 
magnitude of your demand, only its consequences.” 

She was silent. Her lips quivered nervously, her arms 
rolled themselves in the folds of the shawl, and then fell back 
to her side, as befitting one’s manners in presence of the 
quality. She was waiting for one question to be put. But he 
did not desire, or did not intend, to put it. 

He drew a long breath and threw away the remains of the 
cigar. It had lost its flavor now. 

I will do what you wish,” he said abruptly. 

‘‘The Lord reward ye, sir,” she said. “I thought your 
heart wasn’t altogither cowld, as they say.” 

“Be silent,” he exclaimed fiercely. “I am doing this, 
not because you ask me, not because I feel any claim on 
me to do it — simply for a reason of my own. The child is 
not to know. I will select a place for her — probably abroad.” 

A faint cry cut short his words. 

“In furrin parts ! Oh, not that, for the love o’ heaven, 
Mr. Marsden. Shure, ’twould brake the heart o’ me intirely. 
What would I do widout a sight ov her at all, at all ? ” 

He held up one hand. “ My good woman,” he said, 
“ understand once for all, that if I interfere in this matter Ido 
it in my own way. I allow of no dictation as to the mode of 
my actions. You desire to change the whole method of this 
child’s life. You say she is not at one with her surroundings. 
I agree to give her a different life — an education that will help 
her to make her way in a world that will probably be 
never too kind to her. The case is quite simple and perfectly 
clear. ’ ’ 

“ But you’ll let me see her sometimes, sir. You won’t be 
so cruel. Shure, she’s all in the livin’ world I’ve got to love. 
I’ve lost me boy, the pride o’ me heart ” 

“Silence!” he thundered. “Don’t mention his name. 
How dare you breathe it here ? ” 

Her face blanched to a hue of terror. 

“Ah, glory be to God, what was I thinkin’ ov at all?” 
she muttered. The big tears rolled down her cheeks. She 
looked appealingly at him. The whole expression of his 


KITTY THE RAG. 


23 


face had altered. It was full of repressed fury, of scorn, 
horror, rage. The delicate hand clenched on the pile of 
papers by his side so that the knuckles stood out white and 
strained. 

‘‘Remember your oath,” he said fiercely. “You forget 
how much lies in my power.” 

She bent her head. A shiver shook her. “I ax your 
pardon, sir. 'Twas a slip ov the tongue.” 

He regained his previous composure and resumed. “ For 
the next three weeks,” he said, “ I have visitors staying with 
me. After that I will communicate with you. Meanwhile, if 
you need any ” 

His hand strayed to his pocket. She stopped him by an im- 
perative gesture. 

“No, sir; thank you kindly, but it’s not beggin’ I am; 
only askin’ for a right.” 

He rose abruptly. “I have only your word,” he said, 
“ that this is the same child.” 

The flash of scorn in her eyes shamed the suspicion. 

“ You have, sir. It’s as good a word as any man or 
woman’s in all Kerry. If you doubt it, ye’ve but to look at 
Kitty’s face. Heaven bless her ! ’Tis writ there, plain as 
print, Mr. Marsden, who was the mother ov her.” 

He changed color slightly. “ She believes it died,” he said 
very low. 

“ Thrue for ye, she does, sor. Never a bit would I un- 
decaive her. But ’twas the poor colleen who had charge.” 

“She must always believe it,” he said, looking strangely at 
the woman’s tanned and honest face. “ Remember that ; she 
must always believe it. ’ ’ 

“Ye may trust me, Mr. Marsden. I suppose ye know 
best. ’Twon’t be from my lips that that story will iver be 
heard.” 

“ Then you can go home now and wait to hear from me. 
One word — tell the child as little as possible, and if for the 
next few weeks you can take her out of this neighborhood, 
so much the better. You understand ? ” 

“ Shure, sir, ’tisn’t an Irishwoman that needs tellin’ the 
manin’ ov a hint, though I’ve heerd o’ folks as are too honest 
to take one. But I’m not one o’ thim, thank the Lord. 
You’ll not be throubled with a sight ov her. I’ve a bit of 
business will take me down to the coast, and Kitty will be only 
too plazed to bear me company.” 


24 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


You are sure,” he said, you need no assistance ? ” 
When I do, sir. I’ll ax for it. ’Tisn’t to say that Biddy 
the Dalin’ Woman is no better than the Red Hen or the 
Foreign Rushes ! Good-mornin’, sir. I’ll wait your pleasure.” 

** Good-morning, and remember, a silent tongue is better 
than a priest’s blessing. Tell no one your business.” 

She curtsied low and went out. 

He resumed his seat, but the papers seemed powerless to 
interest him. A chapter of human life lay before him. He 
turned over its pages with slow and steady memory. Darker 
and darker grew his face, more ominous the frown that drew 
his fine straight brows together. 

** Am I wise to do this ? ” he asked himself. Or will she 
serve my purpose ? ‘Nobody’s blessing is every one’s curse,’ 
they say. Heaven knows a more undesired and undesirable 
being never thrust herself into the net of a triple destiny. 
‘ Every one’s curse ’ — will she be that? ” 

A figure passed along the terrace, walking with a certain 
weary grace, as if the exercise were a thing of duty, not a 
pleasure born of soft air that was filled with flower-scents of 
bounteous June. She seemed heedless of the green and gold 
of trees and sunlight — the beauty of a scene unrivalled even 
where beautiful scenes abounded. Philip Marsden watched 
her keenly. 

“ She does not look happy,” he said to himself. “ What 
odd creatures women are. Beauty, rank, wealth — she has 
them all. What more should one of her sex ask of life ? ” 

The white gown, severely simple, yet costly as many a more 
showy one, passed out of sight. He saw it gleam for a mo- 
ment against the iron railings dividing lawn and park, then it 
disappeared among the trees, and he went back to his occupa- 
tion of reading the previous day’s London news in a Dublin 
paper — one of the defects of country life which electricity and 
steam have not yet abolished. 


KITTY THE BAG, 


25 


CHAPTER IV. 

^*1 HAVE asked Kilmayne and his wife to dine here this 
evening,” said Mr. Marsden to his daughter when they met at 
luncheon. He is a harmless fool, but she is amusing. You 
will get all the news of the district in five minutes, and I know 
you don’t object to brogue.” 

thought you did,” she answered, as she took a chicken 
cutlet from the dish handed to her. 

Oh, now and then it serves its purpose,” he answered. 
“ It reminds me of where I live and my responsibilities. 
Where did you go this morning ? ” 

“Only through the park. It was too hot to forsake the 
trees. I see you have built a new lodge. Who lives there?” 

“A protegee of Mrs. Kilmayne’s — a widow. She seems 
very quiet and respectable. She’s a Maguire. The place is 
overrun with Maguires. There seems no end to them.” 

“ They are a good family, and once were landowners here,” 
she said, in a somewhat strained voice. 

Her eyes were on her plate, but for a moment she saw noth- 
ing. Her thoughts were back in the past. A boy’s face — a 
boy’s laughing eyes — seemed to have sprung up in the sunshine 
of the room. Together they were wading knee-deep in scented 
grass — tossing the hay aloft with bare brown arms. She was 
playing peasant maid to please him. The summer was theirs, 
and freedom, and the gladness of heedless youth. 

A voice recalled her suddenly. 

“ They say so, but improvidence and imprudence have gen- 
erally a legendary history to fall back upon. The Maguires 
are no exception.” 

She was silent. 

“ I think,” he said presently, “ that Ellingsworth has never 
been to Ireland, has he? ” 

“No.” 

“Ah! it will be quite a new study for him. I shouldn’t 
advise him, however, to invest any spare cash in property here. 
I have never ceased to regret it.” 

She waited until the servant withdrew, and then answered 


26 


KITTY THE RAG. 


that speech. You seem to forget, father,” she said, ^^that 
this property was bought with my mother’s money, that it has 
proved a most valuable investment, and has brought you wealth 
such as you little dreamed of. Abuse Ireland and the Irish as 
you may, at least your own country never served you so well.” 

How warm you always get on that point,” he said with 
his faint sneer; ^‘I am thankful I am not patriotic. It must 
be terribly wearying to have one’s feelings set against one’s 
sense of justice. The faint leaven of Irish descent you draw 
from your mother seemes to have veritably leavened your whole 
nature, Hermia.” 

^‘I am glad of it,” she said, her cheeks flushing brightly. 
*^I am prouder of my Irish descent than if I sprang from the 
tainted nobility of your country.” 

VVe always fight over that point,” he said coldly. ** It is 
the one thing that in your childhood struck me as remarkable 
— your extreme partiality for the land of your birth. I must 
say I have failed in detecting any specially great virtues in the 
Irish character — save a reckless generosity that is its own worst 
enemy, a pride that is both foolish and unreasoning, and a 
general idea of putting off till to-morrow everything that comes 
under the head of ‘a duty’ for to-day.” 

She was silent, but he saw her lips quiver. He knew that 
she was putting herself under strong restraint. 

‘^How is Dr. Garrick?” she asked suddenly. “You have 
not mentioned him.” 

“ He is quite well. He comes in for a game of chess now 
and then in the evenings. I can’t well refuse him the boon of 
my society. That is one of the penalties of college friend- 
ships. We are quite apart in our sympathies, our opinions, 
but men always seem to fancy the intimacies of youth justify 
them in exacting the appearance of amity in after life.” 

“I often think,” she said abruptly, “that you could never 
have cared for any human being — man or woman — in your 
life ! ” 

“Perhaps,” he said, “you are right. I object to be the 
slave of any weakness. To allow feeling to dominate one is a 
very unwise proceeding. I have been twenty years teaching 
that fact to my tenants. I think they are just beginning to 
comprehend it. The advantage of the precept speaks for 
itself. My rents are never in arrear. They know excuses are 
useless. I never listen to them.” 

She looked at him, a sudden fire sluniberin^ in her great 


KITTY THE RAG. 


27 


dark eyes. I wonder,” she said, '' you are not afraid some- 
times.” 

“I? Oh, no. Why should I be? I have taken precau- 
tions for my own safety. I have also read them one or two 
sharp lessons. Believe me, the demagogue is always a coward 
as well as a ruffian. He loves bluster, but he loves his own 
skin better. Besides, there is really a little creditable pride in 
having one Irish property as a show place, and certainly 
Knockrea serves that purpose. Lord Dunsane can’t boast of 
such farms and such cattle as I can show. He always tells me 
he envies me.” 

** But he takes no interest in the country. He is scarcely 
ever here,” she said. 

‘‘And I am, you mean? Well, I’ve had a good business 
education, and I’ve learnt that what you want done satisfactor- 
ily you had best do yourself.” 

She rose at last. “ If the Kilmaynes are coming to-night,” 
she said, “would you object to my inviting the doctor also? 
We were always great friends, you know.” 

“ Of course, ask him if you wish. Are you going to drive 
this afternoon ? ” 

“ I thought of the pony carriage.” 

“ I have given that up. You can have the landau, or dog- 
cart.” 

“Very well,” she said listlessly. “ Only I should have pre- 
ferred to drive myself.” 

She left the room, and, hurrying up the broad oak staircase, 
crossed the richly carpeted corridor to her own rooms. 

The window stood open. The hot sun was screened by out- 
side blinds. She threw herself down on a chair by the broad- 
cushioned window-seat, and resting her arms there looked out 
at the magnificent view spread before her — at the beautiful 
park, the broad terrace, the parterres of flowers ; at the far-off 
gleam of the lake, where snowy swans were gliding under the 
bending willow boughs, and far on, as far as eye could reach, 
spread farm lands, cultured to the perfection of farming, rip- 
ening grain, silvery oats, rich grazing land. How she loved 
every acre of this place, every curve of the swelling hills, 
every bend of the green valleys nestling under their sheltering 
arms. It would be all hers some day, so her mother had used 
to say. All hers — the only child born on Irish soil — the only 
one who had survived of all the puny crew who had once lived 
untjer this roof, Her thoughts flew back to childhood — tp 


28 


KITTY THE BAG. 


youth — to mingled joys and sorrows — to the gradual lessening 
of the home circle — to the perpetual strife between father and 
mother that had so perplexed and saddened her — to loneliness 
and neglect, and a sweet brief gleam of gladness, crushed out 
for ever by an iron hand — her father’s hand. 

How strange it all seemed to look back upon. How weary 
a heart-ache its memory could still bring ! She sighed heavily 
as she at last rose and rang for her maid. 

How much life loses when it imposes the obligations of rank 
upon one ! How infinitely she would have preferred to go out 
in her simple cotton gown and straw hat, gloveless, sunshade- 
less, as of old. Instead, she put on a costly dress of French 
muslin, belted round the waist with broad white ribbon, and a 
wide-brimmed hat, artfully combining black lace and deep 
yellow roses. They were the choice of her French maid 
Hortense, whose views of suitable toilette for the country were 
largely drawn from Le Follet and La Mode Parisien. 

Lady Ellingsworth drove through the village, exciting much 
admiration and receiving many a greeting. She drew up at 
last at the old-fashioned tumbledown house belonging to Dr. 
Garrick, He was at home, and she went into the low-ceil- 
inged quaint old drawing-room, beloved of her childish days. 
It was cool and shady — the long windows opened on a veran- 
dah, heavily creepered and fragrant with climbing roses. 

In a moment the old doctor bustled in. 

“My dear child, I’m delighted, I’m overjoyed! Your 
father told me he expected you, but I’d no idea you’d be here 
so soon. And how are ye ? Bless my soul, but you’ve grown 
into a fine woman in these years. Not much of my little wild 
girl left, eh?’’ 

He wrung her hands and wiped his eyes. “ Well, well, my 
darling, life has many changes and surprises for us. I’m a 
lonely old man now. You know ; yes, of course, you heard 
of my poor wife. No more suffering for her, God be thanked. 
No more tests of that beautiful patience.” 

He followed her eyes to the wide old couch by the open 
window — on it lay a folded shawl of white China crepe. 

leave them just as they were,” he said, “just as they 
were I Not that I’d be forgetting. . . . Every hour of my life 
I think of her. Her memory fills the place as the scent of 
those flowers fills the room. But there, we’ll not be thinking 

of sorrowful things ! What about yourself? You’re well 

happy ? Ah| of course^ of course. I’ve never forgiven you 


KITTY THE RAG. 


29 


for running off to England and taking an English husband. 
'Twas an injustice to your native land — and after breaking all 
the hearts in Dublin, too. Have you seen Mrs. Kilmayne 
yet?” 

No. To tell the truth, I came to ask you to dine with us 
to-night, for the Kilmaynes are coming.” 

“ With all the pleasure in life, my dear Hermia. I’m only 
too delighted ! ” 

She half smiled. **Ah, doctor,” she said, *^it’s good to, 
hear the old genuine speech again — the hearty welcome, the 
frank reception. I’m sick already of artificial life and con- 
ventionalities.” 

“No, are ye now?” he exclaimed. “Well, I wouldn’t 
credit it. You look the grand lady they call you to the life. 
When I think of you — eh, Hermia? — torn frock, bare arms, 
and any sort of head-wearing that came handy, from a fishing 
cap to a sunbonnet ! Ah, dear me, dear me ! A queer thing 
is life — a queer thing, indeed. But you’ll have some tea, now, 
eh, my dear? You’ll see old Moll Doherty again. Yes. 
She’s with me still, hale and hearty as ever, bless her.” 

He rang the bell. It was answered by an elderly woman 
neatly dressed, and with grey hair brushed smoothly on either 
side her face. 

“ Doherty,” said the doctor. “ Here’s our old friend come 
to see us. Perhaps you remember her ! ” 

“Remember is it? Ah, now, glory be to God, if it’s not 
our swate Miss Hermy ! Remember ! Faith, ma’am, and it’s 
not Moll Doherty wad be forgittin’ you, though ’tis a long 
time ye’ve been out o’ the country, what with schoolin’ and 
the grand marriage. Faith, ma’am, my lady I mane, we read 
all that in the newspapers, and proud and happy I was to hear 
ov it ! ” 

Lady Ellingsworth had taken the extended hand, and was 
standing looking down at the kindly face. Here, she felt, were 
warm hearts, loving memories — over, under, around her. Her 
proud face lost some of its pride and hardness. Her eyes 
grew soft. 

“Ah, Doherty,” she said, “ I thought you’d have forgotten 
me long ago. What was I ever but a plague and a hindrance 
to you ? ” 

“ Plague is it, ma’am? Divil a bit more ov a plague than 
any other childers is. Shure ’tis nature, and God made them 
so. And ’tis the grand lady ye are now, ma’am. Shure, 


80 


KITTY TEE EAG. 


doesn’t the whole village talk ovye? and I’ve had the Red 
Hen sitting at the kitchen door the whole, ov this blessed 
mornin’ and I up to my eyes wid the bakin’. Sorra a bit she’d 
go till she’d gone through the whowle history ov ye, and the 
way the property come to yer mother. The saints rest her 
sowl ! ” 

“ There, there, Doherty, that will do ! ” exclaimed her mas- 
ter. You’re every bit as bad as the Red Hen yourself. You’d 
stand gossiping here all day if I’d let you. Be off with you, 
and send us in some tea and some of them same cakes you’ve 
been baking. You’ll maybe refresh your memory of them, 
Hermy, my dear — I’m not going to call you Lady Ellings- 
worth, so don’t be expecting it.” 

She reseated herself, laughing softly. 

‘‘Indeed no. Dr. Garrick. I wouldn’t have you alter one 
bit, nor dear old Doherty either. If you only knew how 
sweet it is to hear the old voices, the old words ” 

“And the old brogue, Hermy.” 

“Yes, doctor, and the old brogue. My heart warms to it. 
My father can never understand why all my tastes and procliv- 
ities are so intensely Irish.” 

“It’s in your blood, me dear, as it was in your mother’s. 
Sure, they tried their best to turn her into an Englishwoman, 
but ’twas no use. She came back to us just the same, bless 
her heart, just the same. Ah, and she was good to the family 
too, such of them as were left. Faith, Hermy, my darling, 
'twas the devil’s own luck they had, those same Creaghs of 
Knockrea. Ah, ’twas a terrible history, terrible — what with 
debts and troubles and bad marriages and one thing with 
another.” 

“They say there are none left now,” she said as he paused. 
i “That’s true. Well, so much the better for you, my darl- 
ing, and a proud day it will be for us when you come into your 
own. Not that we’d be wishing any harm to your father, and, 
indeed, it’s just miracles that he’s worked with the property, 
and how he’s added to it and improved it. Still, the blood’s 
not in it, and his work’s done more for fear than love. By 
the way, is your husband with you? ” 

“ No, he couldn’t get away from town so soon. He’ll join 
me next week.” 

“ I suppose he’s very proud of you. He ought to be, and 
he makes you happy, eh, my dear ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” she said carelessly, “I have everything mortal 


KITTY THE It AG. 


31 


woman could possibly desire. But I hate England. I always 
shall. I wish we could live here.” 

‘*Is aught impossible to wealth like yours?” he asked, 
smiling. 

“ Oh, I don’t know about wealth. The estates seem pretty 
much encumbered, and those stables of Ellingsworth’s cost a 
fortune. He breeds racers, you know, that are always to win 
some great event and always just fail by a neck, or a half-neck. 
I only know it means frightful sums expended on stables and 
jockeys, that bring no return.” 

Dr. Garrick looked grave. 

But this is a serious matter, my dear. Excuse plain speak- 
ing, but the racecourse can bring even the largest fortune to 
beggary. Have you no influence ? ” 

Influence!” she laughed. “Oh, dear me, how behind 
the times you are. Nowadays, if a wife tries to influence her 
husband it generally ends in the Divorce Court 1 Oh, don’t 
looked shocked, my dear doctor. Society gives ns a liberal 
education, I assure you. In this sleepy hollow what can you 
know of men and women who live but for the world’s ap- 
plause ? puppets on the stage of life, a magnificent pageantry, 
all show and brilliance, as hollow as it is dazzling, as vicious 
as it is weak 1 ” 

“ Why, Hermia ! ” he said. 

“You look quite shocked. I forgot how strange it must 
seem to you that I should talk like this, but I couldn’t help it, 
doctor ! In a natural atmosphere I grow natural, just as in an 
artificial one I have learnt the laws of restraint and self-disci- 
pline. But I never took kindly to discipline, did I, doctor ? 
Ah, here comes the tea.” 


32 


KITTY THE BAG, 


CHAPTER V. 

*<You will pour it out, ray dear? ” said Dr. Garrick, as 
Doherty left the room after depositing the old-fashioned silver 
tray and its dainty appurtenances on a sraall table by the open 
window. 

Herraia drew off her gloves, and unpinned the fragile net 
veil which bound her hat. Then she took the low chair he 
offered, and coraraenced her duties, while he watched her with 
a wondering admiration that seemed trying to connect the past 
with the present. She had changed so greatly. It was almost 
impossible to associate this proud, stately grace with the lovely, 
half-wild gipsy who had been wont to run wild about the 
woods and fields of Knockrea. She was so beautiful, and her 
dress, even to his ignorant man’s eyes, looked so rich and fair 
a setting for her beauty. 

To a student of character there was often something repel- 
lent as well as attractive in the expression of the eye and 
mouth, but at the present moment the pride and coldness were 
blotted out by a certain wistful softness that lent her a rarer 
charm than the world knew of. 

As a rule her face was a mask to her inner self. There was 
something unapproachable about her ; but in this quiet, shady 
room, with its wealth of old memories and old associations, 
there was no need of the mask. She could afford to be natural. 

She leant back in her low chair, and sipped her tea, and 
> tasted Moll Doherty’s famous cakes, and gave herself up to 
the simple enjoyment of a long-denied pleasure. 

The old doctor chatted on of a hundred and one village in- 
cidents, country-side casualties, changes of birth, death, and 
marriage, and she listened with eager interest, making few 
comments, but losing nothing of the import of anecdote or 
event. He remembered after she left that she said but little 
about herself, that she had displayed none of the eagerness to 
confide her matrimonial triumphs and the splendors of her 
positions that a young and happy wife might have displayed 
excusably, and that of her husband she said little or nothing. 

On the whole, he was greatly puzzled and greatly disturbed. 


KITTY THE EAQ. 


33 


She had been so great a favorite of his always, from the hour 
of her birth, now twenty-two years ago, to the time when he 
had lost sight of her, and only knew she had been sent to a 
fashionable and exclusive school to be finished. She had 
married so quickly after that “ finishing process ” that he had 
been unable to resume anything like the old fatherly intimacy, 
and now she had come back changed almost out of knowledge. 

Long after she had left — long after the carriage wheels had 
rolled away into silence, he sat there thinking and pondering 
over this change. 

He sat on so long that Moll Doherty came in unsummoned 
to remove the tea-things, and was surprised to find him in the 
same chair, and with the tea he had poured out for himself 
untasted. Her entry roused him. He knew a gossip was in- 
evitable. 

“ Fm not going to dine here to-night, Doherty,” he said. 
*‘Lady Ellingsworth came to ask me over to Knockrea for 
dinner.” 

“ It’s a hard name to get your tongue round,” answered the 
old woman, “ and sure Miss Hermy seems more natural whin 
we're talkin’ ov her. Ah, but ’tis a fine woman she’s grown, 
and wid the beautiful face ov her mother, though there’s a 
look in it that I’m not altogether liking. It’s just a curl o’ the 
lips, for all the world like ould Mr. Marsden himself whin he’s 
the bad mood on him. Do you think she’s happy, sor? ” 
Happy ? Why, of course she is. She’s everything to 
make her so.” 

<^True for ye, she has, sor. But it isn’t having everything 
to make you happy that does it. I know that well meself, and 
so does a power ov other poor women-folk. It’s little we want, 
sor, but it’s the thing that we want and get that makes us 
happy; and nothing else can make up for it, supposin’ we can 
get it. Now, I’m thinkin’ that’s the way wid Miss Hermia. 
She’s got a great deal, but she’s not got the one thing she 
craves for.” 

“Oh, nonsense, woman ! ” cried the doctor. “ I daresay 
it’s all our fancy ” 

“ Ah, so you had the fancy, too, sor ! It’s no use denying 
it. I saw it in your face, and it may be nonsinse, but half o’ 
life’s made up o’ nonsinse where women is consarned, and 
we’ve all our feelings, rich and poor alike, sor.” 

“ And your tongues too, eh, Doherty? ” laughed the doctor. 
“There, be off with you now, and put my dress clothes out 
3 


34 


KITTY THE BAG. 


for me, and tell Phelim to have the covered car round by 
seven o’clock. They dine at half-past, but it takes full twenty 
minutes to get there now Mr. Marsden has made that new 
drive.” 

“ Shure, I’m thinking not a Creagh, dead or alive, ’ud be 
knowin’ the look ov his own land could he see it now ! ” ex- 
claimed the old housekeeper. It’s a cruel thing the way the 
ould properties are going, and the ould names disappearin’. 
‘ Castles falling and dunghills rising,’ says the Red Hen to me 
the last time as iver we were talking ov the Knockrea prop- 
erty, and, faith, that’s just what it is, sor, and little love lost 
between Mr. Marsden and his tenants, though they’re mortal 
feared ov him for some rasin or other.” 

Then she got herself and her tea-tray and her indignation 
out of the door, and Dr. Garrick went to his own study for a 
smoke and a quiet perusal of some recent medical treatise on 
hay fever in which he was much interested. Meanwhile, the 
carriage drove through shady lanes and under spreading trees 
to the ascent of a hill, where stood the remains of a ruined 
abbey. 

Many a time in her childish days had she roamed here to 
picnic among the grey arches and wander through the old 
cloisters, now a heap of broken masonry. From the ruined 
belfry tower one could see the whole lovely landscape for miles 
round — its vivid green pasturage and rich woodland — the little 
village nestling at the foot of the hill entwined by trees and 
fully dependent on the enchantment of “distance” for the 
hopes it raised in the breast of any wandering tourist — the 
silvery gleam of the river in the distance — and around all, the 
sheltering hills now clothed in all the luxuriance of summer 
foliage. 

Lady Ellingsworth left the carriage at the foot of the ascent 
and walked up to the ruins. She reached a series of broken 
archways that represented all that had once been the cloisters. 
The sound of a voice checked her steps, and made her look 
with some curiosity through an ivy-screened aperture of ruined 
masonry. 

She saw a dog, wiry, half-starved, with one eye closed and 
the other very alert, sitting up on a mound of grass, its back 
against a pile of mossy stones. By its side was a child, her 
hand uplifted in an attitude of command, the warm sunlight 
falling on her uncovered head and turning its tangled locks to 
ruddy gold. 


KITTY TEE RAG. 


35 


Now listen, Tim,” she was saying, and her voice with its 
pretty inflections seemed singularly refined in contrast to her 
appearance. “ It’s a beautiful story I’m telling ye, and ye’re 
not attendin’ to me. Well, he gave up the beautiful lady, 
though his heart was nigh to break with the sorrow of it, and 
he came here and joined the holy monks, and when they 
walked about in the beautiful grounds his eyes could see the 
valley where they used to meet, and the roof that covered her, 
and that was all he had to make him happy for many and 
many a long year. And she could look from her windy up 
here to where the belfry stood and listen to the bells as they 
rang for the Mass, and maybe she’d think of him and maybe 
she’d feel sorry, but she wint away one day and she got mar- 
ried, Tim, and thin she was dreadfully unhappy — and niver a 
child to call her own — and one evening she came out and 
wandered up the hill, and there, beyant the woods, suddenly 
she met him coming down, for he was going to see a sick per- 
son in the village — he was a mighty kind man and loved more 
than any ov the other monks — and they looked at each other, 
Tim, just one look, and they knew, each in their own hearts, 
that they hadn’t forgotten, and ” 

But Tim had slipped away, and discovering an intruder was 
manifesting indignation thereat in sharp, shrill barks, which 
brought his young mistress after him very quickly. When she 
saw the lady she stopped short. Her eyes, glowing like stars 
beneath the thick tangles of gold -brown hair, fixed themselves 
on the proud and lovely face which had so allured her childish 
fancy. 

** Perhaps,” said Lady Ellingsworth, ‘*you will call your 
dog away ? ” 

“ Oh shure, he won’t hurt you,” she said. ** Come here, 

) Tim, ye vagabond. Can’t you see 'tis a lady ? ” 

The ragged Irish terrier ceased barking and crept to her 
side. The lady in question stood calmly looking at them 
both, and wondering why the picturesque only showed itself 
in lower grades of life. 

The child, in her ragged, thin skirt — through the rents of 
which showed a bit of deep orange-colored petticoat— with 
her lovely mass of hair, and glowing eyes, was indeed a 
picture. It struck Lady Ellingsworth that somewhere, in some 
past time, she had gazed on a similar picture, but memory of- 
fered it no fitting frame at that moment. 

She seated herself on a pile of stones. 


36 


KITTY THE RAO, 


‘‘Ah, do not run away. Tell me, what is your name?’* 
she said quietly, as the wild, pretty creature began backing 
from her presence, the dog by her side, but a new sense of 
shyness impelling a retreat. 

The child paused. ** They call me Kitty the Rag,” she said. 

Do you live in the village?” continued her questioner. 

Yes, ma’am. I lives with the Balin’ Woman, only she’s 
mostly away, and gran’ father, he’s not much to tell of. He’s 
always for speechifyin’ and talkin’ of what ought to be done 
by the quality, and I’ve to dig the purtaty beds and feed the 
cocks and hens.” 

*‘Oh ! ” she said, smiling at the graphic picture. “ And 
where are your own parents ? ” 

“ I don’t know, ma’am. Biddy says my mother’s dead. 
As for my father, I niver heerd tell ov him.” 

“And this man, who lets you work while he talks of his 
wrongs, is he really your grandfather? ” 

“He’s Biddy’s husband. Shure, every one knows Jim 
Maguire.” 

“ Maguire ! ” she started ever so slightly. “Is his name 
Maguire? There are so many of that name in this county.” 

“ Thrue for ye, ma’am. Biddy says they were a great 
family onst. They’re poor enough now.” 

“ Are your grandparents very poor ? ” 

“ Oh, we’ve none so much to complain ov, ma’am. There’s 
always food, and we’ve got a dacent cabin, and Biddy makes 
a fair penny, so I’ve heerd her say, and she’s that good to 


“And you’re happy and content, Kitty? ” 

“ Happy ! ” a strange flash shot from the dark eyes. “ No, 

ma’am, I’m not. I want ” 

She paused abruptly ; she remembered how freely she was 
talking to this grand lady, and a warning of Biddy’s occurred 
to her. 

“ Well ? ” said the questioner. “ What is it you want ? ” 

“ I’ll never get it,” laughed the child scornfully. “ Biddy 
says I might as well cry for the moon.” 

“Let me hear this impossible desire,” said Lady Ellings- 
worth with strange gentleness. “ I am rich. I may be able 
to help you.” 

The child’s eyes fell — her mouth took a sullen droop. 

“ No,” she said. “ You couldn’t help me. You couldn’t 
make me a lady, like yourself.” 


KITTY THE RAG. 


37 


Is that what you want ? ” The clear voice took an added 
note of scornful surprise. ‘<To be a lady! Well, Kitty, I 
fancy Biddy’s right. That is a thing only comes by inherit- 
ance. You can’t buy it, you can’t learn it. But what makes 
you discontented with your own position ? As a rule I have 
found your class singularly humble in their demands. A roof 
to shelter them, a little food, a few pigs, and a little work as 
an excuse for so many advantages. What makes you think 
you’d like to be a lady, Kitty? ” 

She had drawn off one of her gloves. The white hand and 
delicately ringed fingers lay idly on her lap. The child’s eyes 
rested on them. Then she looked at her own clasped round 
the dog’s body. Brown they were, and stained, and coarsened 
by work and neglect, but their shape was slender, and they 
were small, like the arched feet that Biddy had cased in 
patched shoes a mile too large for them. 

don’t know why I think it,” she said. ** It came to me 
when I saw you.” 

** Me ? When have you seen me before to-day ? ” 

** I saw ye drivin’ in the carriage the day you came to the 
great house.” 

“ Oh ! ” The smile was cold and slighting. Her interest 
in the pretty, wild-looking elf had abated considerably since 
she heard of her ambition. The desire of imitation may be a 
form of flattery, but it is not a form that always appeals to the 
person imitated. 

** And ever since then you have thought you would like to 
be a lady also ? ” she went on. 

I mean to be one,” said the child, in a strange, fierce 
voice. “ I’ll never rest till I do. I’ve told Biddy so. She’s 
goin’ to help me.” 

Lady Ellingsworth’s eyes grew interested again. 

“ Indeed, and how is it to be accomplished ? ” she asked. 

“I dunno yet,” said the child sullenly. ^‘But Biddy’s 
mighty clever, and when she sets herself to do a thing she al- 
ways does it.” 

Lady Ellingsworth rose and shook out her muslin skirts. 

My dear child,” she said, “ I fancy it would take a cleverer 
person even than Biddy to work out such a transformation. 
The heritage of race, the heritage of birth, alone create the 
superiority of class. You will understand it some day. 

Meanwhile ” She drew out a dainty trifle of ivory and 

silver representing a purse, and opened it. 


38 


KITTY THE BAG. 


The child drew back. “ No, ma’am, thank you,” she said. 

Biddy will never let me take money from any one.” 

“Indeed,” said Lady Ellingsworth, somewhat mystified by 
so unexpected a rebuff. “ Then you and Biddy are singularly 
unlike the generality of your race.” 

“We’re not beggars,” said the child proudly, flashing de- 
fiance from her brilliant eyes. “ We ask nothing from people 
that we don’t earn ourselves.” 

Lady Ellingsworth closed the purse. “I thought,” she 
said, “ you might like to buy some trifle for yourself, in re- 
membrance of this talk of ours.” 

“ I’ll be rememberin’ it ; never you fear, ma’am. And 
thank you kindly for wantin’ to give me somethin’, but I’ve 
promised Biddy, and I niver broke my word to her yet.” 

“ You are a strange child,” said Lady Ellingsworth. “ But 
you are right to do what Biddy tells you.” 

She still held the purse in her hand. The child’s eyes 
rested on it with a longing she could not control. 

“ ‘ Never be beholden to any one,’ says Biddy. But a gift 
is different to a keepsake,” she said slowly. 

“Then you would take a keepsake ? ” asked Lady Ellings- 
worth, smiling at the distinction. “ Well, what shall it be? ” 

“Perhaps it’s too bold of me to ax for the likes o’ that,” 
she pointed to the purse; “but if ye’d take the money out 
and give it me. I’ll kape it always just for memory ov you, 
ma’am — all my life — I promise ye.” 

Lady Ellingsworth looked at the costly trifle. She did not 
value it, she had plenty of others, but a strange feeling of re- 
luctance made her hesitate. Then slowly she opened it and 
poured its gold and silver contents into the palm of her 
hand. 

“ They say that to court the impossible is almost to obtain 
it,” she murmured with a faint smile. “You are an extraor- 
dinary child, even for an Irish one. I wonder whether you 
will ever get within speaking distance of your ambition ? ” 

The child watched her steadily, understanding nothing of 
what she was saying, intent only on the pretty trifle that seemed 
about to pass into her possession. 

Lady Ellingsworth thrust the loose coins into the pocket of 
her gown, and held out the purse. 

“There, Kitty,” she said. “ Some day, perhaps, we shall 
meet again, and I will ask you if you remember your prom- 
ise.” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


39 


The child stepped forward and took it. She did not curtsy. 
There was a certain stubborn pride in her that forbade the 
bend of knee even to this beautiful and superior woman. 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” she said, and her eyes had a won- 
derful softened glow under their heavy lashes. “ I mane what 
I’ve said. I’ll kape it all my life.” 


40 


KITTY THE BAQ, 


CHAPTER VI. 

Dinner was over. In the damask-hung drawing-room of 
Knockrea Lady Ellingsworth and Mrs. Kilmayne were sitting 
over their coffee, while in the dining-room beyond the men 
sipped claret of the first quality, and told stories of — the worst. 

Lady Ellingsworth left all the talking to the vicar’s wife. 
She had a tongue like a running brook, and a store of infor- 
mation whose accuracy was little less marvelous than its extent. 
She was a fine, tall, fresh-colored woman, who had reared a 
large family and placed them out in the world in various posi- 
tions of independence and use. Having so far fulfilled her 
own duty in life, she spent most of her time in interfering 
with that of other people. Her tongue made her an object 
of dread to a cautious or more reticent sisterhood, and the 
admirable method in which she had brought up her own fam- 
ily served a no less admirable purpose in the enforcing of 
precept and example to a limited parish. Perhaps the personal 
illustration that she invariably offered became a little irksome 
at times. There are few things more trying than to be asked 
to admire virture by a living embodiment of it. 

Still Mrs. Kilmayne was a general favorite, and a perfect 
encyclopaedia of information as to parish pedigrees and mis- 
doings. 

<< Changes!” she was saying. <<Ah, me dear Lady El- 
lingsworth, changes indeed. The parish isn’t like the same 

so many of the good families broken up, and the properties 
changing hands. There’s Lord Dunsane, now; he never 
comes near his place, and the people hate his agent like 
poison. Never a thing will he do for one of the tenantry, 
and last winter was very trying. My husband and I were 
worked off our legs almost, trying to get food and medicine 
for the sick. There was an outbreak of fever, you know. 
Perhaps your father mentioned it. He was very kind. He 
helped us a great deal — not personally, of course, but by 
money, and food, and things. Ah ! Lady Ellingsworth, Ire- 
land is a terrible country to live in ; there’s no doubt about it. 
The people are so thriftless and so thankless. They seem to 
think it’s their bounden right to be provided for by their more 


KITTY THE BAG, 


41 


provident or more fortunate neighbors. Now, look at that 
creature they call the Red Hen. She has never done a stroke 
of work in her life. She has a brood of illegitimate children, 
who grew up — well, as weeds do I suppose — and she lives by 
begging from door to door all over the country. And no one 
thinks any the worse of her, and if you turn her away she 
simply sits down and curses you in the most awful manner. 
Now, I ask you, would such a state of things be tolerated any- 
where save in such a country as this? ” 

Lady Ellingsworth smiled languidly. ^‘Oh," she said, 

there are beggars all the world over. England is full of 
them. Spain and Italy swarm with them. They are not only 
the growth of Irish soil, believe me. I suppose their existence 
is a misfortune; but civilization hasn’t solved the riddle of 
its necessity.” 

‘‘ The priests encourage them,” continued Mrs. Kilmayne. 
“Their ignorance is disgraceful, and their superstition per- 
fectly horrible. They believe in the efficacy of charms ; in 
the water from what they call the ‘ holy well ’ ; in witchcraft 
and miracles.” 

“Well, we did the same once,” said Lady Ellingsworth. 
“ They are only half a century or so behind us. After all, 
what does it matter what they believe ? They accept what 
they’re taught, poor souls. The fault lies with the teachers.” 

“ Would you say that to Father Dillon? ” 

“Yes, or to any one. I have no particular respect for the 
priesthood of any denomination. Judging by results, the 
world is little better under Protestantism than it was under 
Catholicism, but the former is a more comfortable creed for 
the individual, I grant.” 

“ Ah, Lady Ellingsworth, you’ve been imbibing all sorts of 
advanced notions, I fear. The Bible is, of course, our only 
guide, and I find it an invincible foe to popery and su- 
perstition.” 

“ There is a good deal of superstition, not only in the Bible, 
but in the way it is regarded,” remarked Lady Ellingsworth. 
“*1 cannot, of course, say I have studied it as carefully as you 
or your husband, for instance, but I studied it at one period 
of my life, and it didn’t comfort me.” 

“ Ah, me ! dear Lady Ellingsworth, you didn’t go the right 
way to get comfort. You were too critical, too doubting maybe. 
It is the simple faith that gains comfort, believe me ; the 
child-spirit asking and accepting what it wants.” 


42 


KITTY THE BAG. 


As we have drifted on to this subject,” said Lady Ellings- 
worth, “ may I ask if you think that all human beings are 
alike?” 

“ Alike — no ! We all differ from one another.” 

^‘Then, Mrs. Kilmayne, how can you expect every one of 
us to accept any problem of life, especially its greatest and 
most puzzling one, in the same manner? You talk of simple 
faith. The child has it because it knows no better. Its mind 
is as dependent on others as its body. But we can’t always 
remain children, and then we can’t accept without question, 
or judge without evidence.” 

“ Ah, me ! dear Lady Ellingsworth, you forget I am a clergy- 
man’s wife. I mustn’t listen to heresies. Perhaps you are one 
of those whose minds have been set adrift by pagan philoso- 
phies, or over much culture. I always said you were kept at 
school too long. There’s a Mrs. Montressor come to live here, 
at Ballina. She is a widow, and of good family, on her side, 
though the husband wasn’t much to speak of, with one son. 
He’s in the army, and at Cork now, with his regiment. Well, 
she talks just like you, and every one says she’s such a clever 
woman. Whenever she’s in church, Mr. Kilmayne gets quite 
nervous over his sermon. And her arguments — oh, my dear, 
it’s quite terrible sometimes. She says she’s been thirty 
years trying to find a rational religion, and she can’t. Ah, 
my dear Lady Ellingsworth, it’s a true saying that ‘ many are 
called, but few chosen.’ ” 

“Judging from my experience of self-satisfied Christians 
and self-satisfying creeds I should be inclined to say, ‘ Few 
are called, but many think they are chosen,’ ” said Lady El- 
lingsworth. “But do not let us continue this controversy. 
You were telling me about the state of the village. When I 
drove through it to-day I thought it looked very much im- 
proved — cleaner, and brighter, and more prosperous alto- 
gether.” 

“Oh, your father has done wonders here ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Kilmayne. “ We often say it’s a pity he’s no son — ah ! me 
dear, a thousand pardons, but a slip of the tongue you know. 
Never mind, it’s a fine property it will be for your sons, and 
that will be almost the same thing*. Of course, it’s early days 
yet to speak of such matters.” 

A scarlet flush dyed the beautiful face lying back against 
the brocaded cushions of the chair. Then it faded out, leav- 
ing it strangely white. Mrs. Kilmayne noticed it, and with the 


KITTY THE BAG. 


43 


instinct of a matron who had done her duty almost too well in 
such matters, she launched forth into incidents respecting her 
early married days, and the various ailments and accidents that 
beset the nursery. These interesting records kept her going 
until the entrance of the gentlemen afforded her listener some 
relief. 

Mr. Kilmayne, who was an enthusiastic whist player, asked 
for his favorite game. He was a massive and imposing-look- 
ing man, with a deep voice and a manner that inspired confi- 
dence. Looking at him one thought instinctively of the dig- 
nity of office, and felt that the robes of a bishop would be 
eminently becoming. He did not talk much, at least when 
his wife was present, and he was excessively polite to Lady 
Ellingsworth, having heard that there was the gift of a com- 
fortable living in Lord Ellingsworth’s power. 

His disappointment at her refusal to play whist was so evi- 
dent that she tried to atone for it by promising to sing for 
them, if the music would not interfere with the game. 

The offer seemed to surprise her father. He made no re- 
mark, but he listened with the severity of a critic as she began 
an Irish ballad. Her voice was a contralto, rich and passion- 
ate and melodious. She seemed to throw off her habitual 
coldness and restraint once she let loose its thrilling tones, and 
the players paused after the first round, and, as if by mutual 
consent, postponed the next deal till the lovely air was con- 
cluded. 

Then she rose abruptly. Music and cards don’t go 
well together,” she said. I told you my singing would 
disturb you. Go on with your game. I am going out on 
the terrace.” 

Dr. Garrick’s keen eyes alone caught the glitter of a tear 
on the curling lashes as she closed the instrument and went 
out into the soft starshine, filled with the scents of the roses. 

<*She is not happy,” he said to himself as he followed 
suit to Mrs. Kilmayne’s lead. There is something strange 
about her. I wonder what she lacks. ... I shall be glad 
when Lord Ellingsworth comes. Perhaps that will give me 
the clue.” 

<*How your daughter has improved, if I may say so,” 
interposed Mrs. Kilmayne as Philip Marsden marked the 
trick and shuffled the pack for his opponents. So beauti- 
ful — such dignity — such gracious manners ! I can’t think 
gf her as the girl we used to know at all ! Isn’t it wonder- 


44 


KITTY TEE BAG, 


ful what English society and education can do for us? I 
remember my own daughter Margaretta — the one with the 
fair hair, you’ll remember, Mr. Marsden. Well, she w^ent 
over to England to stay with a cousin of mine who had 
married and settled there, when she was sixteen — Marga- 
retta I mean — and she was away six months, and when she 
came back, why her manners were the talk of the place. In- 
deed, Lady Ellingsworth puts me much in mind of her.” 

My dear Clara,” interposed her husband impatiently, 
“ even a mother’s partiality can hardly excuse such a 
comparison. Pray attend to the game and let us have no 
family reminiscences. They cannot possibly interest Mr. 
Marsden ! ” 

To and fro on the terrace without that white figure 
passed in its stately grace. The four pair of eyes watched 
with strangely different feelings, but with one strangely per- 
sistent sentiment of curiosity. 

It was odd, too, that the same thought, though roused 
by opposing influences, dominated each mind : ** When Lord 

Ellingsworth comes here.” 

They had all known her under widely different circum- 
stances. They could not recognize her as in any way be- 
longing to them now. The transformation was too wonderful 
to escape comment or discussion. Dr. Carrick kept his reflec- 
tions to himself. 

Mrs. Kilmayne, however, was not so reticent. Indeed 
that good lady’s tongue was rarely unemployed in her neigh- 
bors’ concerns. 

Lady Ellingsworth’s arrival was a godsend to it. The 
vicarage was within walking distance of Knockrea, and her 
black silk allowed of being pinned up under a Galway cloak 
that had seen much service, and as she had never altered 
her style of hairdressing for the last fifteen years, it did not 
suffer by the contrast of a bonnet more serviceable than 
fashionable. Lady Ellingsworth thought of the decolleUed 
and chignoned London dowagers, and of their appearance 
as they left or entered an evening entertainment. She half 
smiled as she bade Mrs. Kilmayne good-night in the hall. 
Perhaps some primitive virtues struck her as more amusing 
than admirable. 

“ Well, I must say,” exclaimed that voluble lady, as they 
walked down the moonlit path to the south lodge, I must 
say, Edward, I never could have believed she was the same 


KITTY THE MAG. 


45 


creature. It doesn’t seem possible ! Not that the change 
is altogether for the better. Her religious views are really 
most extraordinary ; more so even than Mrs. Montressor’s. 
She quite holds with beggars and the thriftless senseless 
beings of the lower orders. I hope you’ll preach a good 
sermon on Sunday morning, Edward. She said she would 
come to church, and she asked if you had a choir yet or 
whether old Peggy Boyle still did double duty. Fancy 
remembering how she used to walk up the aisle with the 
coalbox in her hand to mend the stove, and leading the 
singing all the time ! I told her we’d amended all those dread- 
ful ways — not but what Peggy had a beautiful voice and we 
missed her very much — but the boys are so troublesome, and 
the organist doesn’t care a bit about the services. He is al- 
ways saying we have too many. Of course you never hear 
these things, Edward, but I do.” 

‘‘My dear,” said the vicar quietly, “you take very good 
care that I shall hear them also.” 

“It is a benighted place,” lamented his wife. “I wish 
you could get away from it. I wonder whether Lord 
Ellingsworth could do anything for you. The bishops al- 
ways seem to forget that there are any English clergy in 
Ireland.” 

“I am very anxious to see Lord Ellingsworth,” said Mr. 
Kilmayne. “I have no idea what sort of man he is, and 
Marsden is singularly reticent on the subject. Did it 
strike you, Clara — women are so much keener-sighted in 
these matters — did it strike you at all that Lady Ellings- 
worth did not seem exactly happy ? And surely it is a little 
— ah, strange — how do these things strike women? — that she 
paid her first visit here since her marriage, unaccompanied by 
her husband.” 

“ Oh, but then he is to follow very shortly.” 

“So shortly,” continued the vicar dryly, “that I wonder 
she did not wait for him, or he could not have put off his own 
engagements for her.” 

“Ah, my dear Edward,” said Mrs. Kilmayne, “you 
mustn’t expect people in their position to have domestic vir- 
tues. They leave them for humbler folks.” 

“Like — ourselves, my dear Clara.” 

“Well,” she said, giving the arm she held a wifely pres- 
sure, “ we’ve been very happy together, Edward. And 
there’s many married folks couldn’t say that. I often think 


46 


mTTY TEE UAG. 


if you were made a dean or a bishop we mightn’t get on so 
well. I’m better fitted for a country parish than a diocese, 
and it must be very fatiguing to live up to such dignity. Be- 
sides, so much more is expected of the wife of a bishop. You 
know we have St. Paul’s authority for that. I think he says 
something about their bonnets.” 

Well, yours are always very suitable, my dear Clara,” said 
the wise husband. 

** Suitable maybe, Edward, but they’re rather behind the 
fashion.” 

** Ah,” he said placidly, understand. Even the life 
of a vicar, forgotten by the holders of Church honors, has — 
compensations.” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


47 


CHAPTER VII. 

The fact that Lord Ellingsworth had arrived on the Satur- 
day night received open advertisement by his appearance in 
church on Sunday, in company with his wife and father-in- 
law. 

His appearance did not excite so much admiration as 
curiosity. He was a young man, heavy of build, florid of 
complexion, a head shorter than his wife, and with nothing 
in the way of features or stature to justify his title, or cast 
that magic halo of aristocratic lineage ” around his brow 
which every one had expected. 

His wife looked as if any number of belted earls might 
have contributed to her descent, but Ellingsworth himself 
might very well have passed for a jockey out of training, or 
a decadent member of the prize ring. 

He had evidently gone to church from a sense of duty, 
for he yawned all through the service, and manifested his 
interest in the abstruse doctrines placidly put forth by the 
preacher by closed eyes and a gradually increased placidity 
of breathing. 

His wife paid no heed to him. She sat as far from his 
side as the limited space of the pew permitted, and her face 
wore an expression of proud composure and utter indiffer- 
ence that struck one at least of the congregation as almost 
insolent. 

This person was Mrs. Montressor, the recent tenant of 
Ballina, whom Mrs. Kilmayne had spoken of. With all the 
best intentions to curb her curiosity this lady found it im- 
possible to keep her eyes from that perfect face, or to restrain 
her appreciation of the faultless simplicity of a Parisian gown, 
and the chic charm of a Parisian bonnet. 

They interfered severely with her attentions to the rubric, 
or her usual critical interest in the sermon. 

When the service was over Mrs. Kilmayne hurried out. 

Lady Ellingsworth and her husband were a few steps in ad- 
vance. They stopped for the carriage to come round, and the 
vicar’s wife bustled up, all eagerness and vivacity as usual. 


48 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Lady Ellingsworth introduced her husband, and at the same 
moment Mrs. Montressor passed them. 

The eyes of the two women met. A wave of interest 
seemed to sweep away the previous indifference of Lady El- 
lingsworth’s face. She said something quickly to the voluble 
speaker, and in another moment that good lady had intro- 
duced Judith Montressor as their new. neighbor at Ballina. 
Hermia found herself shaking hands with a woman of medium 
stature, elegant mould, and a deeply interesting face. It 
showed signs of thought, of a reserve power of deep feeling, 
and of no small intellectual capacity. 

All first greetings of first acquaintanceship are bound to be 
conventional. Judith Montressor, however, escaped that ob- 
stacle with a certain graceful ease that no one would have 
called presumption. 

‘‘I was looking at you in church, Lady Ellingsworth,” she 
said, and wondering whether etiquette imposed the tax of a 
first card on me as a resident or on you as a dignitary. Your 
father and I are already acquainted.” 

** Come and see me to-morrow,” said Lady Ellingsworth, 
warming at once to the frank smile and easy manner. 
shall be at home all the afternoon. My stay here is too short 
for conventionalities, though I think you deserve to be called 
the resident.” 

I suppose so. But I shall certainly call. I am sorry to 
hear your stay is limited. One learns to appreciate new ele- 
ments as well as new faces in country life. In town, variety 
is, of course, at any one’s choice.” 

*‘I am afraid,” said Lady Ellingsworth, ‘^that I don’t 
appreciate variety as you seem to do. The old friends and 
the old scenes appeal to me as nothing else has ever done.” 

Mp. Montressor looked at her with sudden, quick compre- 
hension. In her heart she was thinking : “ How much that 

face masks.” 

Then the carriage came up, and the Knockrea party drove 
off, leaving endless gossip, malice, and envy at work, with 
Sunday gowns that had suddenly become hopelessly old-fash- 
ioned. 

Women can forgive most things, but to be out-rivalled in 
dress by a woman on whom they have been accustomed to 
look down is a hard matter, and borders on the inexcusable. 
No one had thought much of Hermia Marsden, but every one 
felt compelled to acknowledge the dignity of Lady Ellings- 


KITTY TBE BAG. 


49 


worth. Mrs. Montressor still lingered beside the vicar’s wife. 
Her eyes were following the fast-disappearing carriage. 

“Well, what do you think of her?” asked that good lady 
briskly. “ Didn’t I say she had the style about her? What 
was her dress? I couldn’t make out the material, but I saw 
’twas real Honiton on her bonnet. And she — a chit of a 
thing, whose ears I used to box same as I would my Cissie’s, 
and with brown Holland frocks all torn. Well, well, it’s a 
queer topsy-turvy world, eh, Mrs. Montressor? To think I 
had her in my arms when she was four days old, and look at 
her now.” 

“She certainly must look rather different,” said Mrs. Mon- 
tressor, smiling as she opened her sunshade. “ No one could 
help admiring her. She is a very beautiful woman. I wonder 
if she is happy ? ” 

It was the same doubt already raised on Hermia’s behalf by 
the friends who had known her in her youth. It seemed strange 
that it should also be the expression of the first stranger to 
whom she had been introduced in her old home. 

“Happy? Well, I wouldn’t breathe it to a soul, Mrs. 
Montressor, my dear, but between you and me, I don’t think 
she is. We had a long talk together the other evening, for 
Edward and I were asked up to dinner the very day after she 
arrived, and I used my powers of discretion, my dear, and 
she didn’t talk like a young wife and a happy wife ought to 
talk; and not the least interest did she seem to take in what I 
told her about my poor Margaretta’s measles, or how I had to 
nurse all the boys with the scarlet fever at one time.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mrs. Montressor genially, “ that was certainly 
a very bad sign, Mrs. Kilmayne ; but I don’t know that it 
argues absence of happiness in her own lot.” 

Mrs. Kilmayne shook her head. “ She must have a great 
deal of money,” she said. “I wonder if she’d give us new 
cushions for the chancel if we asked her; and as for the organ, 
it’s a disgrace. Did you hear the way it went off this morn- 
ing?” 

“I did, indeed. It seemed bent on taking a trip to 
* Greenland’s icy mountains ’ on its own account. But there, 
Mrs. Kilmayne, I must run away. We’re setting a bad ex- 
ample, gossiping like this.” 

She nodded and walked off, and Mrs. Kilmayne turned 
down the shady churchyard toward the rectory, an old ramb- 
ling place within convenient distance of the church, and com- 
4 


50 


KITTY TKE RA&. 


bining all the effects of the picturesque with the disadvantages 
of a roof and drains that had been planned on no principles 
of safety or rules of sanitation. She had reared her family, 
however, in spite of such drawbacks. 

Over the cold dinner which was the Sunday rule in summer 
time, Mrs. Kilmayne again dilated on the subject of Hermia 
Ellingsworth, nee Hermia Marsden deposed. 

It seemed a subject of inexhaustible interest, and therefore 
to become table talk for a long time to come. 

I wonder how Mrs. Montressor will get on with her,” she 
remarked. 

^‘Or she with Mrs. Montressor,” said Mr. Kilmayne. I 
always feel grateful that she took Ballina. She is one of the 
few women who can make the best of moderate means with- 
out perpetually telling you they have seen better days.” 

“ She wears very stylish bonnets,” observed Mrs. Kilmayne 
thoughtfully. 

<‘Well, she is young enough to do that. Besides she is 
amply justified in doing it, for she makes them herself.” 

Who told you so? I cannot believe it.” 

* ‘ I saw her once at the work. It seemed so easy, and she 
did it so quickly, that I’ve often wondered why you deem it 
necessary to make a journey to Cork when you require a new 
one.” 

As if I only went for the sake of the bonnets, Edward. 
There’s heaps of things besides : things for the house and the 
parish, and for yourself, too. Fancy making her own bonnets, 
and never to tell me, often as I’ve admired them.” 

** Which only shows she is a true woman,” said the vicar, 
sending his plate for raspberry tart again. She can keep a 
secret which concerns herself.” 

“ She said nothing about the sermon to-day,” observed 
Mrs. Kilmayne presently. “ I think she was too interested in 
Lady Ellingsworth to pay her usual attention. I introduced 
them after service. She asked me to do so.” 

Who asked you? ” 

Lady Ellingsworth, of course. I was surprised. I thought 
she was too indifferent to people to trouble about knowing 
them, and for so short a time, too. But somehow she seemed 
to take a fancy to Mrs. Montressor the moment she set eyes on 
her.” 

‘‘She is a very attractive woman,” remarked the Rev. Ed- 
ward. 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


61 


Mrs. Kilmayne bridled sharply. Indeed, then, Edward, 
at your time of life, and the father of a grown-up family too, 
leaving alone your calling, it’s other things you should be 
thinking of than a woman’s looks. And she a widow too, 
which every one knows is a snare, though why I never could 
imagine, for she’s the same woman as when she was married.” 

*‘No, my dear. She has a decided advantage — freedom 
and experience.” 

“Well, we all know ’tis said that a virtuous woman is a 
crown to her husband, but there’s nothing about widows.” 

“No,” said the vicar gravely; “nor of the nature of the 
crown. There are thorns as well as roses, you know, Clara.” 


52 


KITTY THE BAG. 


\ 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Out in the cool, shaded verandah of Knockrea the house 
party were sitting over tea. 

Lord Ellingsworth, who did not particularly like his 
father-in-law, was looking as bored as he had done in 
church. 

His wife was sipping her tea, and throwing morsels of cake 
to a beautiful Irish setter, which was sitting beside her. 

How is it that Sunday in the country seems to consist of 
about forty-eight interminable hours? ” she remarked. ** We 
all look bored to death. As for you, Arthur, you’ve done 
nothing but yawn all day.” 

Remember the journey, my darling,” he said, looking at 
her with that wondering admiration so characteristic of his love 
for her. “I’m the happiest of men, but I’m confoundedly 
tired and knocked up to-day.” 

“I hope you’ll be all right to-morrow,” said Mr. Marsden. 
“ I want to show you over the property. I can give you a 
fairly good mount, though of course my stables can’t compare 
with yours. 

“ How is King Canute?” asked Hermia suddenly. “ He 
so nearly won the Derby, father, that I consider him quite a 
hero. ’ ’ 

Mr. Marsden’s fair brows took on a slightly perceptible 
frown. 

“It’s a risky business, racing,” he said. “I thought you 
were going to give it up, Ellingsworth ? ” 

“ So I am, but I’ve two or three good colts, and I want to 
do something with them first.” 

‘ ‘ Jockeys and trainers are not the most honest persons in the 
world,” observed his father-in-law. 

“ Oh, I’m sure Arthur gets dreadfully cheated,” said Lady 
Ellingsworth. “ I’ve seen some of his bills ; they were posi- 
tively frightful.” 

“Oh, the place can stand them, never you fear, darling,” 
said her husband. “And you’re all right whatever hap- 
pens.” 


KITTT THE BAG. 


53 


She colored. It was such bad taste to speak like that, 
she felt, but then somehow Ellingsworth’s remarks were 
nearly always in bad taste. At times he grated on her unbear- 
ably. He was so stupidly devoted, and so utterly devoid of 
tact. 

Her eyes wandered over to the belt of woods beyond the 
park. She made no answer to that last speech. 

Mr. Marsden began to talk about his improvements to the 
property, and the troubles of an Irish tenantry. 

“ I don’t suppose they’re worse than the English,” re- 
marked Lord Ellingsworth. Mine are for ever worrying me 
about drains and roofs and outhouses. I never take any notice 
of them.” 

“Does Hermia find them interesting? She used to have 
an absorbing fancy for the lower orders at one time, ’ ’ observed 
Mr. Marsden. 

“ Oh, she never goes near them. She says they’re so stupid 
and conventional, and that all the children have been brought 
up on one plan, and can only curtsy and say the catechism and 
such things, and eat.” 

“I maintain the Irish have more individuality,” she said 
coldly. 

“ Well, I hope you’ll introduce me to some Handy Andys, 
or Mickey Free, or that sort of chap. It would be rather 
amusing, but I suppose they’re not really like what Lever says 
they are ? ” 

“ No,” said Mr. Marsden, “ they’re a very great deal worse, 
and not half so witty. At present their sense of humor con- 
sists in riot and bloodshed.” 

“You don’t get that in this part of the country, do you? ” 
asked Lord Ellingsworth, with a sudden glance of apprehension 
at his wife. 

“Oh, no, not in my part of the district,” said Mr. Mars- 
den, with a comprehensive wave of his delicate white hand. 
“I’ve had to read them some pretty sharp lessons, though. I 
suppose I’m not what you’d call popular in consequence. The 
popular landlord is a man like Lord Dunsane, of the Castle. 
He works on the laissez aller system — let’s everything take its 
own course, and doesn’t interfere with old prejudices and old 
notions. Then he’s always wondering why his farms don’t 
look like mine.” 

“ Are they such unmanageable people as we are led to sup- 
pose?” 


54 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Only to those who won’t take the trouble to understand 
them,” said Lady Ellingsworth sharply. 

** Oh, my dear, I was forgetting your prejudices,” an- 
swered her father. I know your sympathies are entirely 
with the fancied wrongs of the country.” 

<< Never mind about fancied wrongs. I should like to get 
hold of some actual facts,” observed Lord Ellingsworth. “It 
would look well to mention them in the House.” 

“But you never speak,” interrupted his wife sarcastically. 

“ No, but I may some day. I’ve not come across a suitable 
subject yet.” 

“ That seems rather a common complaint with your order, 
at least judging from the speeches that are reported.” 

“She’s always down on me,” .he observed admiringly. 
“ She knows I’m an awful fool.” 

Hermia rose impatiently, and took up a great white sun- 
shade by her chair. “ I’m going down to the lake,” she said. 
“ I’ll leave you to discuss politics by yourselves.” 

“ Oh, but I’d rather have you than the politics ! ” ex- 
claimed her husband. “ They’ll do any time. Let me come 
with you.” 

She frowned impatiently. 

“ No,” she said. “ I prefer to go alone. It’s my evening 
service.” 

He gazed somewhat ruefully at the graceful figure. “ She’s 
awfully good to put up with me. I know she thinks I’m a 
fool,” he said frankly. “And she’s so clever. People go 
wild about her in London. At the last Drawing-room there 
wasn’t a woman could hold a candle to her, except the 
Princess herself.” 

“ And what possessed her to leave town in the height of the 
season ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. It’s not her way to explain things. 
She just says she’s going to do a thing and does it. We’re 
awfully happy. I never interfere with her at all.” 

“ I don’t wonder then that she’s happy.” 

Ellingsworth laughed. 

“ Well, it’s best to give a woman a loose rein. At least 
I’ve always found it so. I consider myself a very lucky 
fellow.” 

Mr. Marsden looked at him keenly. “ You’re an easily con- 
tented one, I think. But I don’t quite agree with you about 


KITTY THE BAG, 


55 


the * loose rein.’ Every woman is the better for a master. My 
experience is wider than yours.” 

‘‘ Ah, yes,” said the younger man placidly; I suppose it 
is. I didn’t know Hermia’s mother.” 

Mr. Marsden bit his lip. After all fools were very trying, 
he told himself. 


Lady Ellingsworth reached the margin of the lake, and 
strolled on to the old boat house. How long it seemed since 
she had been there, how long since her strong young arms had 
sent the punt from end to end of the dark deep waters. She 
sank down on the grassy bank and gazed with sad and weary 
eyes to where the willows kissed the placid depths, above the 
opening lily cups. 

Everything here was so beautiful and so fraught with 
memory. At times it seemed as if the ache within was almost 
unbearable. The burden of secret pain is the heaviest of any. 
What we dare not speak is the canker worm that destroys 
happiness. To Hermia the present was for ever filled with 
haunting echoes of a past, unforgotten and unforgettable. 

She sat there so still that the birds fluttered to and fro seek- 
ing nest and bough in the closing eventide ; so long that the 
saffron tints faded from off the burnished water, leaving them 
darkly tranquil, so long that the sound of church bells 
came like a surprise across the valley, and fell on her ear 
with startling clearness. It must be late,” she said, and 
rose abruptly. 

The movement brought her face to face with a bowed, 
creeping figure, crossing the soft sward in the track of a passing 
sunbeam. A strange, weird figure, outlined against the green 
of the trees and the fading daffodil tints of the closing day. 

Her head was bent. It was covered by a faded shawl that 
had once been red ; it was hard to describe its present color. 
She moved slowly, and did not at first perceive the tall, grace- 
ful figure that was watching her approach. 

Suddenly she paused, a low cry escaped her lips. Arrah, 
now, the saints in hivin be praised. It’s Miss Hermy ye are ! 
Ah, me lady, an’ it’s thirstin’ for sight ov ye I’ve been ivir sin 
I heerd ye were cornin’ back to us. Glory be to God, but ’tis 
the beautiful lady ye’ve grown, and shure I’d never have known 
ye, but for thim eyes o’ yours. 'Tis sore we’ve missed you in 


56 


KITTY THE BAG. 


these parts, miss, I mane me lady. Sorra a bit or sup now at 
Knockrea, but ’tis begrudged ; ah, and the hard look and the 
sharp word if the master so much as ketches sight o’ the poor 
Red Hen 1 ” 

A look of intense pity came over the beautiful face, softening 
all its pride, and adding to its wonderful loveliness. 

“You poor old soul ! ” she said softly. “Of course, I re- 
member you. And how are you ? I’ve got a nice warm shawl 
for you up at the house; I’ll leave word you are to have it 
when you call.” 

“ Ah, hivin bless ye, me lady. Shure ’twas yerself gave me 
this very one I’ve on me at this prisint minute, and a power o’ 
weather it’s stood, and a comfort to me ivery day and night. 
The saints look down on ye, darlin’, and may ye nivir want a 
bit or sup, or the kind heart to love ye, or the roof to cover 
ye, though ’tis throuble ye’ve got writ across that beautiful 
face. It’s not goin’ ye are, darlin’ ? ” 

“Yes, there’s the dressing bell. But come up to the house 
yourself. I’ll tell them to give you something. You’d like a 
cup of tea, wouldn’t you? ” 

“Faix and I would, me lady, or a dhrop o’ whisky if the 
tay wasn’t handy, maybe. But shure I’m not allowed up to 
th’ house, me darlin’. ’Tis the master’s orders they say. 
He’ll have no beggars round Knockrea; shure it’s himself is 
the hard man, me lady, though it’s not afraid ov him I am, for 
’tis meself knows quite enough to throuble him when I choose 
to spake the wurd. But, shure, ma’am, for your sake I’ve held 
my tongue, not wantin’ to bother ye. Ah, the hard man and 
the cruel — and ’twas yourself felt the iron hand ov him for 
many a year, and ye will still, darlin’. Ye will still.” 

Lady Ellingsworth’s face grew strangely pale. 

“ Come, come,” she said, “ you mustn’t talk like this. My 
father is strict I know, but he has good reasons. See how 
riotous and troublesome the people have been, and as for not 
coming up to the house. I’ll see to that; my father won’t re- 
fuse his permission while I’m there.” 

“Well thin, me lady. I’ll take your word for it. But it’s 
yerself and not the food I’d rather be seein’. Ah, ’tis a quare 
tale I could be tellin’ if I was put to it, and maybe something 
you’d like to hear ; but throth, why should I be lettin’ out the 
saycrets o’ the family? Wasn’t it your mother — may the 
hivins be her bed this blessed night — wasn’t it herself made 
me give the promise, and me purtindin’ I didn’t know the 


KITTY THE BAG. 


57 


manin’ovit? Ah, but it’s tired ye look, darlin’. I’m kapin’ 
you maybe. Ah well, human natur’s a grand thing and ’tis 
the same wid us all whin it’s dinner time, the Lord be praised 
for His marcies, and take the Red Hen’s blessin’ back wid ye, 
acushla, and better luck to ye than’ll fall on your father’s head, 
for ’tis meself can foresay that.” 

What makes you say such things? ” asked Hermia sharply. 

Ever since he came here there have been nothing but warn- 
ings and prophecies of ill-luck for him. But he seems none 
the worse for it.” 

Thrue for ye, me lady, darlin’, but the rain falls whin the 
clouds are heavy. I’m seein’ them gather.” 

She sat down on the twisted roots of a tree near by and 
drew the shawl more closely over her head and shoulders, 
rocking herself to and fro with a strange crooning noise. 
Hermia knew from experience that it would be little use to try 
to get any more positive information from her. 

She left her sitting there, and went on to the house. The 
dressing bell had sounded its second summons, and her maid 
was awaiting her. She made a very simple toilet, choosing 
a black gown and no jewels whatever, and then went down to 
the drawing-room. Her father was already there. 

“ You made a long stay in the grounds,” he said. ** It was 
as much as I could do to entertain Ellingsworth ; consolation 
was, of course, impossible.” 

“I met one of my old pensioners,” she said, ‘^the Red 
Hen. She tells me you have forbidden her to come to the 
house. Why is that? ” 

<‘I have made a rule to have no more of these pestering 
beggars coming round the place,” he said sharply. “They 
are a nuisance and a disgrace to the country. They’re too 
lazy to work, and expect to make a livelihood out of insolence 
and effrontery.” 

“ That poor old woman used to work when she could,” said 
Hermia in a low voice. “ And so little contents her.” 

“It is the principle of begging I object to. I have set ray 
face against it from the hour I came to Ireland.” 

“I have told the old woman to come here this evening,” 
said Hermia quietly. “ I suppose I am at liberty to give her 
a gift for old times’ sake. I brought her a shawl from En- 
gland.” 

“Do you mean to say you remembered a creature like that? ” 
exclaimed her father. 


58 


KITTY THE BAG, 


**Yes ; I have rather a good memory.” 

<<So it seems.” His brows clouded, his eyes grew stormy. 

Remember,” he said, ^‘this is not to be a precedent. 
Have you brought any more rewards for improvidence besides 
the one you mention?” 

Plenty,” she said quietly. ^‘But, of course, I can give 
them out of the house, as you object so strongly to these poor 
creatures. ’ ’ 

do object,” he said. I had to put up with an im- 
mense amount of inconvenience once in my life. It is my 
hour of authority now, and I choose to exercise it in my own 
way.” 

“You will remember,” she said, “that there are certain 
drawbacks to unpopularity in Ireland.” 

He smiled. “lam aware,” he said, “ that some men have 
been shot for less crimes than mine in this delightful land. 
But I have never gone out of my way yet for threat or persua- 
sion of any human being. I don’t intend to begin now. Be- 
sides, what should I fear ? I have always been a just landlord, 
if not a very lenient one. I have never ejected a tenant save 
on strictly legal grounds, and then have offered free passage to 
America or England as compensation. I have paid a fair price 
even for worn-out land, which meant little profit to me for 
years to come. The better class tenantry and the neighbor- 
hood generally have applauded my efforts with wonder. I 
wish a few more would follow my example.” 

“ Perhaps,” she said, “ they understand the poor; you have 
never troubled yourself to do so. Their grievances were noth- 
ing to you but an inconvenience, their ignorance was nothing 
but a crime. I too understand them, father ; I have seen their 
life as you have never seen it or would care to see it. I marvel 
at their patience, I marvel at their endurance. The Irish peas- 
ant is the outcome of centuries of repression and oppression, 
of priest-ridden superstition and priest-fostered ignorance. 
Their finest moral qualities have never been encouraged, their 
strength and honesty never recognized. With moral virtues as 
with physical powers, once their use is restricted they become 
useless.” 

“ Oh,” he said, with that cynical tone she so hated. “It 
is almost as good as a Blue Book to hear you. Ellingsworth 
could not do better than get you to coach him in Irish politics.” 

“What’s that about politics?” asked Ellingsworth himself, 
who had just entered, 


KITTY THE BAG, 


59 


** I was complimenting your wife on her championship of 
the lower orders,” said Mr. Marsden. 

*‘Oh, she’s awfully good to beggars,” said Lord Ellings- 
worth. The drunken creatures and organ grinders and dirty 
children seem to spot her as a goddess of charity.” 

Indiscriminate charity is one of the greatest evils of our 
social system,” said Mr. Marsden pompously. 

“ Dinner is served, sir,” announced the butler. 


60 


KITTY THE BAG. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The two women sitting opposite one another in the cool 
shady drawing-room of Knockrea were of decidedly opposite 
types. One face was full of nervous energy and changeful 
expression, the other of physical beauty defying criticism, and 
with strange, unrevealing eyes that seemed to hold a secret of 
their own. 

The warm interest, mutually inspired at first sight, had abol- 
ished most of the reserve as well as the conventionality of a 

first call.” Mrs. Montressor was sipping tea, and giving her 
impressions of Irish society. She had traveled much and seen 
much. She had an intense appreciation of all things beautiful 
— an intense sympathy for all things sorrowful. 

Here,” she said, ‘‘I am struck perpetually by the humor 
and pathos of life — the content with so little, the disinclina- 
tion to achieve more ; to bring about a better state of things 
by a little more energy and self-reliance.” 

“ The poorer classes have never been taught to be self-reli- 
ant,” said Lady Ellingsworth. “ They see everything through 
the eyes of the priest and take everything to the confessional. 
Our servants are only spies, and our tenants are encouraged in 
anarchy and revolt by the very class who preach peace and 
goodwill to all. It has often struck me that if the Catholic 
Church is as infallible as it professes to be, it might surely do 
without such weapons as physical force and moral coercion. 
Its own strength should be sufficient to prove its own doctrines. 
Unfortunately the results of the latter are a striking contradic- 
tion to the merits of the former.” 

“ I am not at all prejudiced as to any special form of reli- 
gion,” said Mrs. Montressor. *‘It is the spirit underlying it 
that I look for. Abroad I used to go to the Romish Church 
because I liked the music. Here I go to the English because 
I prefer the ritual. There is, of course, no special efficacy in 
either. Nothing would ever convince me that my salvation 
depended on a creed, or could be brought about by any other 
mortal.” 

“ How do you like Mr. Kilmayne?” asked Lady Ellings- 
>vorth. 


KITTY TEE RAG. 


61 


**0h, we have wonderful controversies,” she answered. 

He says my views are too advanced for him. One of the 
drawbacks of living in the country is that your attendance at 
church becomes a social keynote to your respectability. I sup- 
pose you have discovered that, Lady Ellingsworth ? ” 

“Yes. It is as unfortunate to have a position to uphold, as 
an example to set.” 

“ * Regular attendance at church ’ might be the inscription 
on many a tombstone,” remarked Mrs. Montressor. “ How 
one wonders whether the passport brought admission into the 
courts of heaven ! ” 

There was a brief silence. Both faces had grown thought- 
ful. Lady Ellingsworth inquired if her visitor knew Dublin 
at all. 

“Only to the extent of a few dinner parties,” said Mrs. 
Montressor, with her brilliant smile. “ One was an experience 
I shall never forget. The lady was extremely anxious to pose 
as a veritable grande dame. She used everlasting flowers for 
floral decorations, and wore cotton-back satin with the air of a 
duchess. The dinner had a certain air of the confectioner’s 
assistance in its entrees and flavorings. But the incident that 
amused me was a little dialogue between the hostess herself 
and an improvised footman. She was sitting languidly back 
in her chair when the somewhat awkward servitor handed her 
a dish of tartlets. * Ah — h — what are these, Callaghan ? ’ she 
inquired frigidly. * Threepence a-piece, ma’am. Didn’t I 
tell ye when I brought them this morning ? ’ was the somewhat 
unexpected answer. The frown on the good lady’s brow was 
quite lost on the unfortunate man, but I had a distinct vision 
of reprisals in store for him.” 

Lady Ellingsworth smiled. 

“ As a rule,” she said, “ Irishwomen are not given to ‘pos- 
ing,’ but I suppose they occasionally fall into temptation. My 
experience has been more of the ‘ free and easy ’ style of en- 
tertainment. Do you know Mrs. O’Brien ? she lives at Shir- 
ley, that pretty house just before you come to the town.” 

“ No, I have not met her yet.” 

“ Well, the last time I called she had a roomful of visitors, 
and she only keeps one servant, as much a character in her way 
as her mistress. This was what we heard : ‘ Biddy, is that 

tea ever coming ? ’ called out from the drawing-room door. 

‘ Faith, ma’am, ’tis the kittle won’t bile since the fire’s out.’ 
Mrs. O’Brien to guests : ‘ Ah, there now, my dears, the fool- 


62 


KITTY THE BAG. 


ish old woman has let out the fire. Never mind, what would 
we be botherin’ with tea for ? Ah, have a drop of whisky ; 
that will do just as well. Biddy, never mind the kettle, bring 
up the whisky.’ ‘ Whisky, is it? Shure, now ye know ye 
had the last dhrop last night yourself, and what ye left I’m 
just after giving Andy the Hopper this blessed minnit ! ’” 

Is there a climax? ” asked Mrs. Montressor laughing. 

“ Oh, she wasn’t a bit abashed. * Well, I’ve done my best 
for ye,’ she said genially. ‘ I forgot to lock the sideboard this 
morning; you see the result.’ And none of us thought any 
the worse of her for it.” 

“Of course not. The Irish only fail when they try to be 
superficial. As long as they are their real selves we accept, 
excuse, or admire them as we never accept or admire any other 
nation.” 

“I feel so sorry for this country,” said Lady Ellingsworth 
presently. “All my sympathies are with it. Their brains, 
their temperament, their soil, should make them rich and 
prosperous if they would only use them with a little more 
common sense, and a little less superstition.” 

“ That is exactly my opinion. Laws have been made for 
them, aid devised for them, counsel, help, instruction alike 
offered them ; and yet they are still turbulent, still unmanage- 
able, still the slaves of old prejudices and the victims of big- 
otry and lawlessness — always their own worst enemies — now, 
as in those awful penal days whose memory lies like a dark and 
fearful blot on their history as a nation.” 

“There are so many burning issues abroad in the world 
now,” said Lady Ellingsworth, “that I marvel to find every- 
thing in Ireland so little changed. In England the cry of the 
masses is for social light and liberty of thought. Here no one 
seeks any change, any remedy for old grievances, any outlet 
for new ambitions. No one will tell this unhappy land how 
best to help herself. They leave her thus, ignorant, helpless, to 
her priests on the one hand, and her iconoclasts on the other.” 

“ And yet for a people so faithful, so warm-hearted, so 
easily led, it ought to be easy to find a leader ; one who would 
touch their hearts and fire their imaginations, and raise the 
dreadful cloud from above their heads that has kept them so 
long in darkness.” 

“ Leaders are not so easy to find. I mean, of course, the 
true sort. Men who would be disinterested and capable, who 
would act for the sake of right, and bring out, by sheer force 


KITTY THE BAG. 


63 


of example, as well as teaching, the worth and zeal that now 
lie dormant in this long-oppressed and long-misunderstood 
race.” 

Mrs. Montressor half rose from her seat. You should get 
your husband to plead their cause, guided by your instincts,” 
she said. 

“Oh, don’t go yet,” pleaded Lady Ellingsworth. “ If you 
only knew how I have enjoyed talking to you ” 

Mrs. Montressor reseated herself. “lam paying you a long 
visit,” she said. “Still, it is so pleasant to find a kindred 
spirit that I am easily persuaded, you see.” 

“I wonder,” said Lady Ellingsworth, “ if I lived here — if 
you — if we ” 

“I know what you mean. If our influence would benefit 
even a small section of this down-trodden community. Ah, 
I fear not : at least, not yet. There is that one inherent ob- 
stacle — we are Protestants.” 

“Oh, that old prejudice!” cried Lady Ellingsworth im- 
patiently. 

“Yes, it is an old prejudice, but all religion is full of prej- 
udices.” 

“Say rather the teachers of all religion,” said Lady Ellings- 
worth. “As if we could make people good by keeping them 
ignorant 1 Yet that is what the Church has always tried to do. 
Mankind have had to fight their way against its opposing influ- 
ence from the very beginning. I often wonder, are priests so 
afraid of the truth that they will never argue — only command 
and threaten? ” 

“ *By their fruits ye shall know them,’ ” murmured Judith 
Montressor. Hermia’s eyes kindled. 

“ That is true,” she said. “ The fruits of evil teaching, the 
narrow petty bondages of the soul to a degrading superstition. 
Do you know,” she went on, her voice softening, “I have 
often thought that these so-called souls of humanity hold 
within themselves the power to become immortal? I mean 
that good and evil are fairly balanced, and if they cultivate the 
good it will vanquish the evil, and by vanquishing it have 
strength to live on ; if, on the other hand, evil conquers the 
said soul, it sickens and dies just as our bodies die of physical 
disease.” 

“ You don’t believe in universal immortality, then? ” 

“I see no use in it. Nothing vicious or useless ought to 
survive a certain period : the period of trial.” 


64 


KITTY THE BAG. 


I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Montressor thoughtfully. 

It is a sensible theory, though an unorthodox one. Even 
Nature destroys what is feeble or unfruitful, but religion holds 
out hope even to the worst. Would you deny the possibility 
of amendment?” 

** No, I would only continue the text we originally took 
for discussion — ‘ Can men gather grapes of thorns, or fig of 
thistles? ’ ” 

“ But the thorns and the thistles may have a use? ” 

*‘To lacerate our flesh, and to feed — donkeys!” laughed 
Hermia. “ There is something in that.” 

** Oh, my dear!” said Mrs. Montressor gravely, until 
humanity is wise enough to judge for itself of its own needs, 
and its own capacity for answering those needs, so long will 
religion be at the mercy of creeds and ceremonies.” 

*‘And yet,” said Hermia, ‘*we are so weak. There are 
times when our own helplessness is so pitiable, our own need 
of guidance so great, that we would make but a poor use of 
individual freedom.” 

Yet it is always ours — always. No one can take it from 
us, even if we don’t recognize the worth of its possession or 
let it rust in self-blind disuse. Deep in the heart, in the soul, 
it lies, speaking plain enough when we choose to hear. But 
we let the world drown its voice with other cries, and then be- 
lieve we are deaf. I would like to say something to you — I 
don’t know if it would help you in any way, I only know it 
has often helped me. It was something I read once when I 
was a girl. I never forget it.” 

<‘Tell me,” said Lady Ellingsworth. 

It was to this effect. ^ All philosophy, all religious codes,\ 
all the wisdom of the wisest, all the science of the scientist, \ 
can only teach you to find yourself.’ Just yourself, always, 
and only yourself. You try to get away from it but you can’t 
— to distrust it, to kill it even. But it is useless. It comes i 
back to the puppets of pleasure, it comes back to the drunk- ; 
ard’s dazed brain, it comes back to the suicide’s wretched soul. ; 
From the gates of heaven ,from the flames of hell (if there be ; 
a hell apart from our remorse and misery) it comes back ; it ! 
must come back. It is our heritage. It is the meaning of life 
and the mystery of death — ^just yourself.” 

Lady Ellingsworth ’s beautiful face had grown strangely pale. 

** And to think that helps you,” she faltered. Oh, to me 
it sounds terrible, terrible.” 


KITTY TEE RAG, 


65 


Judith Montressor looked at her half pityingly, half kindly. 

‘‘Ah, you beautiful proud thing,’' she said in her heart, 
“ there is something in your life of which you are afraid.” 

But she only took the slender white hand in both her own, 
and said gently : “You won’t be afraid always. The more 
you think of it the more it teaches, the more it helps you.” 

Their eyes met. In Hermia’s was a certain soft wistfulness 
new to them. “I hope,” she said, “ I shall see you often. I 
have never had a friend — a woman friend — who seemed to me 
on a higher level than her gowns or her social success had 
placed her. You are so different.” 

Mrs. Montressor smiled. 

“I am not so different,” she said. “ I am only candid. I 
always speak what I think. It is the only sort of courage a 
woman is allowed. I hope, in a not far distant future, she 
will make a better use of that privilege than she has done 
hitherto.” 

“ You do not believe in the submissive attitude for woman ? ” 

“I think a woman’s real submission should spring out of 
her recognized authority.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Lady Ellingsworth, “ your married experience 
must have been a happy one.” 

She was startled at the expression that leapt into the clear 
eyes into which she looked. 

“ Happy ! ” and Mrs. Montressor turned away. “Ah,” she 
said, “ there are things we women have to bear, of which we 
never speak, because we dare not. No, my experience has not 
been happy. Lady Ellingsworth. If it had, I should never 
have learnt to think.” 

5 


66 


KITTY TEE RAG. 


CHAPTER X. 

Lady Ellingsworth sat for long that night brooding over 
those last words. 

Was it only unhappiness that taught women to think — that 
lifted them above the mere level of commonplace or luxurious 
surroundings? Was the inner life, the life that one’s heart 
alone knew, the real life after all, and the other that the world 
saw a mere series of phantoms and phantasmagoria, unsatis- 
factory as well as unreal ? 

The look in that woman’s eyes, the ring of truth in her 
voice, haunted her. She had never met any one like her. 
Here at least was no puppet of fashion, living for her own 
petty triumphs and imagining the world had been created as a 
posing place for her social successes. Here was one who had 
suffered, thought, worked out life’s problem for herself. 

I think she would be a friend worth the name.” So ran 
her reflections. ‘‘A friend — Ah! how often I have wanted 
one. I wonder if she would be the same, if she knew^ 

She started. A wave of color rose to her face. She heard 
a step without, and knew her hour of peace and self-commun- 
ion was .over. She rose, and the warm soft stream of her 
loosened hair covered her like a mantle. As she saw herself 
in the glass a shudder shook her from head to foot. Oh ! ” 
she cried, in the vain passion of a useless protest, ‘‘why did I 
do it, why did I marry him? Better a life of anguish and 
humiliation than a living lie. Oh I what fetters I have forged 
for myself, and I can never break them now.” 

There was a look in her eyes more pathetic than tears. 
Tears are a woman’s safeguard, the relief of overstrained 
tension. But here was only anguish, terrible and enduring, 
the sign of suffering unspeakable, the shame of something 
never to be undone. That is what makes life so terrible when 
we have reached the stage of looking back. The clearness 
with which we see the error that has altered everything — the 
little slip, the chance word, the foolish kiss, and then all has 
g^e wrong since, and never a chance again of retrieving the 
slip, of withdrawing the word, of recalling the kiss. 


KITTY THE MAG. 


67 


Hermia coiled up her rich loose hair, and turned away 
from the glass which had shown her to herself unmasked. 
“ God ! who made women, why did you give them hearts ? ” 
she cried to that self. 


The intimacy between Hermia and Judith Montressor 
grew apace during the next two weeks. It was the subject 
of much discussion among other social lights in the neigh- 
borhood, and of some petulant jealousy on the part of Lord 
Ellingsworth himself. He had come to this quiet retreat with 
honeymoon proclivities, and an idea that he would have his 
wife all to himself, as had hitherto been impossible in the 
swing and rush of many seasons” and at many fashionable 
places, and the demands on his own time and attention 
caused by such peremptory masters as the House of Lords and 
the training stables. 

But these three weeks he had promised himself were to 
be altogether different. He and his wife would be together 
without any of their worldly acquaintances to distract, or 
bore, or claim them, as the case might be. Together in 
a humdrum bourgeois fashion in an out-of-the-way Irish 
village. It would not be exciting, but it would be infinitely 
delightful, for he was still in love, and still found an absorb- 
ing interest in studying his wife. He was intensely proud 
of her. Being a stupid, honest-hearted, easily contented 
man himself, he had a supreme admiration for intellectual 
qualities in others. To him Hermia had always been more 
or less of a puzzle. But he was content to take her as she 
was, and leave time to work out the solution. 

It struck him as rather hard therefore that, instead of the 
peace and the solitude d deux he had promised himself, he 
should have dropped into a hornet’s nest of claimants on 
his wife. Old friends, old scenes, tenants, peasants, beggars 
— there seemed no end to them all ! 

He had found her giving a tea in the village to the most 
extraordinary set of beggars it had ever been his lot to be- 
hold. They were the characteristic crew of licensed beggars 
known by such names as “ The Foreign Rushes,” who sold 
brooms; “The Red Hen,” who had never been seen with- 
out a red shawl over her head, and possessed a face like a 
barn door fowl; “Andy the Hopper,” who was lame and 


68 


KITTY THE BAG. 


made a livelihood by singing patriotic ballads in a wheezy, 
broken-down voice; “The Mouse,” a little, barefooted 
woman, with tiny, childlike features and small, red, restless 
eyes; one special character, the head and queen of them 
all, who rejoiced in the appellation of “The Swan,” and 
was famous for interlarding her conversation with the longest 
and most inappropriate words that memory or a quick ear 
could furnish. 

Lord Ellingsworth did not feel at all pleased to see his 
wife at the head of the table, dispensing tea and comestibles 
to such guests. He stood at the doorway of the little 
kitchen secured for the occasion, and surveyed the scene 
with a sort of good-humored disgust. 

“ The Swan,” Johanna Reardon by name, who considered 
herself mistress of the ceremonies, rose as soon as she ob- 
served him, and made a low obeisance. 

“ Good -day to your honor’s lordship,” she said with ex- 
treme politeness. “ It’s wishing you long life and prosper- 
ous succession we are, and your honored lady, too. And 
the blessing o’ heaven upon you both, for ’tis your good 
lady, your honor, that has the kind and rememberful heart, 
and notwithstanding the disparagement of station, between 
us, a warm welcome to yez both, one and all. Where’s 
yer manners, ye crathurs? Don’t ye see his honor’s grace 
standin’ beyont, and ye all as dumb as door-posts ! Git up 
wid ye and give him the wurd o’ welcome, as I’ve bin show- 
ing you the etiquette of doin’ this blessed minnit.” 

But Ellingsworth had fled, and his wife had to explain 
that not being used to Irish ways and customs he could not 
understand what was meant. 

Indeed, the close atmosphere of the kitchen, and the 
hubbub of tongues, were beginning to be a little too much 
for herself. Having seen the provisions well under weigh, 
she rose from her seat, and desiring Johanna Reardon to 
preside in her stead, she slipped out and left them to their 
own devices. 

“Poor souls!” she thought, “a cup of tea, a shawl, an 
ounce of snuff, and they’ll be eternally grateful. What a 
strange life, what limited capacity — and they are women, like 
myself.” 

She caught sight of her husband a few yards in advance. 
He was strolling slowly along. The look of his back 
seemed expressive of ill-humor to Hermia’s eyes. “ I 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


69 


suppose he is cross,” she said. I had better join him— not 
that it’s any use to explain. He’s like my father, he won’t 
even try to understand.” 

She quickened her pace and soon caught him up. The 
gloom of his face changed slightly as she reached his side. 

Why did you go, Ellingsworth ? ” she asked. “If you 
had said a word or two they would have been so pleased, 
poor souls ! ” 

“ I really must draw the line at characters,” he said. 
“ They looked so awful, and were so dirty. I couldn’t bear 
to see you there.” 

“ It was only once,” she said. “ We leave in a few days, 
and it may be years before I come back here again. Be- 
sides, I like to think I have given a little pleasure to some- 
body.” 

“ I wish you would give me a little, in the shape of your 
company,” he said. “ I never seem to see you now.” 

She looked at him in surprise. “My dear Ellingsworth, 
why, we are in danger of boring one another with too much 
of each other’s society. It seems quite funny, only our two 
selves staying at Knockrea. I felt sure papa would have 
asked some other people.” 

She did not like to say that she found the burden of 
supporting the conversation and the company of her father 
and himself night after night something of an ordeal. There 
had been times when she cared nothing for hurting his 
feelings, but that had been before she knew Judith Mon- 
tressor. It was curious how often she found herself dating 
new emotions and sympathies from the birth of that friend- 
ship. 

She had always known that it cost her a distinct effort 
to listen to her husband. Now she felt the effort was be- 
coming a strain, and yet she nerved herself against self-be- 
trayal. 

He went on with a series of half-petulant, half-unreason- 
able complaints that seemed to her almost childish. 

“ Oh, my dear Arthur ! ” she exclaimed at last. “ What 
are you saying? Surely we see quite enough of one an- 
other. The truth is, you miss your horses and your 
trainer, and all that perpetual fuss about early gallops and 
< mashes ’ and oats that I used to hear. If you want amuse- 
ment, why don’t you go about and get statistics for the 
House of the state of Ireland? If you ask the people 


70 


KITTY THE BAG, 


themselves you will get such information as no Blue Book 
ever contained.” 

can’t understand a word they say,” said Lord Ellings- 

worth. 

She smiled involuntarily. Shall I look upon you as 
representative?” she asked. ‘‘I begin to understand now 
why it is English people have such a wonderful amount of 
knowledge respecting this country ! ” 

“ Oh, of course, we haven’t Irish enthusiasm to help us 
out. Though why you’re all so deucedly proud of being 
Irish beats me. I’d take my choice of any other nation on 
the face of the earth before this ! ” 

That is very like my father,” she said, and a very bad 
compliment to me, Ellingsworth.” 

‘‘ Oh, my darling,” he said with ready compunction, of 
course, I didn’t mean that ! You are different to any other 
woman ; you stand quite apart from them in my sight. 
Oh, did you see that child, Hermia? What a lovely face ! ” 

He stopped abruptly. They were passing Jim Maguire’s 
cottage. In the doorway stood Kitty. She wore the scarlet 
frock, her hair was like burnished gold about her shoulders, 
her dark, glowing eyes and ruby lips made up a picture of 
wonderful color and wonderful beauty. 

Well, Kitty,” said Lady Ellingsworth, where have you 
been all this long time ? I haven’t seen you in the village at 
all.” 

The child approached the broken railings. 

‘‘I’ve been away,” she said; away to the sea yonder, 
with Biddy.” 

** And what’s your name ? ” asked Lord Ellingsworth, tak- 
ing a half-crown from his pocket. He had discovered it to be 
a talisman that unlocked tongues and secured unlimited bless^ 
ings and information. 

“ I’m Kitty the Rag.” 

Why Rag?” inquired Lord Ellingsworth facetiously. 
** That pretty frock doesn’t deserve such a nickname I’m sure.” 

She glanced at him with fine contempt. ’Tis the first 
dacint frock I’ve iver had,” she said. “ But it won’t be the 
last. I’m goin’ to a grand school and to be educated and 
brought up fine, like a rale lady.” 

**Oh,” said Lord Ellingsworth, *Ms that your ambition? 
Who’s going to educate you — your mother ? ” 

** I? it Biddy? no^ sir. I’ve no rale mother. No, it’s 


KITTY THE RAG. 


71 


the gintleman up yonder at Knockrea who’s given her the 
money ; she tould me so herself. ’ ’ 

‘*My father! ” exclaimed Lady Ellingsworth in astonish- 
ment. 

“ Whew ! ” whistled her husband, pursing up his mouth. 

Blows the wind thus, pretty Kitty? I thought there was 
something a little above the ordinary cut about you.” 

Lady Ellingsworth’s face grew scarlet. She turned abruptly 
away. Her husband tried to slip the coin into the child’s sun- 
burnt hand. 

She drew back. I don’t want money,” she said. ** Biddy 
has always told me never to take what I don’t earn.” 

Lord Ellingsworth laughed somewhat brutally. Oh, 
you’ll earn enough some day, I make no doubt,” he said, and 
he followed his wife, smiling oddly at his own thoughts. 

The child watched them both. So that’s her man,” she 
said. Well, he may be a gran’ gentleman and a rich, but, 
faith I I don’t think much of his manners I ” 

Meanwhile Hermia was hurrying along, her face still hot 
with that shamed flush ; her brain afire with sudden indigna- 
tion. That look and laugh of Ellingsworth’s had opened up 
an avenue of suspicion, through which her thoughts flew in 
wild confusion. The strange beauty of this child, her words, 
her ambition to rise above her present surroundings, all lent 
themselves to the same interpretation. For her father to act 
in a manner so contradictory to his rules meant some very 
strong interest in this half-wild, lovely creature. When Ellings- 
worth joined her, the curious smile on his lips struck her like 
a fresh insult. He looked at her in a way that was more elo- 
quent than speech. 

A queer incident,” he said. ** But I suppose Irish morals 
are much the same as those of other nations. The child is 
a rare beauty, at all events. Did you see any — any like- 
ness ? ” 

No ! ” she said with sudden, cold anger. Nor do I sup- 
pose that a little charitable interest is as uncommon as you 
seem to imagine.” 

Not the interest,” he said. I did not mean that ; but 
her words — that she was to be educated and brought up as a 
lady — what of them ? And what of the benefactor, who, with 
all his prejudices against the lower classes, chooses to trans- 
form a beggar into a civilized being? ” 

‘‘I se? nothing so extraordinary in it. The child is not of 


72 


KITTY THE BAG. 


f 

/ 

common appearance. He may have felt as interested in her 
as you and I have done.” 

“But would you or I lift her above her station, my dear 
Hermia, and sow discontent in her innocent soul ? I think 
not.” 

She was silent for a moment. “ I think myself it is an un- 
wise proceeding,” she said at length. “ Wild flowers are best 
left in their own soil.” 

“I quite agree with you, but when there has already been a 
little ‘ grafting ’ done, the result is a blend of culture. 
However, I admire your father’s protegke immensely. I shall 
feel quite interested in results.” 

“ I should not advise you to speak to him on the sub- 
ject,” she said coldly. “ He is not a man who brooks inter- 
ference.” 

“I know that,” said Lord Ellingsworth. “ Oh ! I had no 
intention of intruding our discovery upon him. After all, it 
is his own concern.” 


KITTY THE BAG, 


73 


CHAPTER XL 

“What were you spakin* to the gintleman about?" asked 
the daliu’ woman as she came suddenly out of the cottage. 

“ I was only telling him my name," said Kitty. 

“You didn’t say a wuurd about what I’ve tould ye, eh, 
Kitty agra? I said ye wos to kape your tongue still." 

“Faith, then, I did tell him, and the lady, too. I won’t 
be looked down upon by the likes of them, so I tell you 
straight." 

“Ah, Kitty, ’tis you are the proud one and the hard one. 
Sorra a bit ye care for poor Biddy or any one else in the place ! 
I wish ye weren’t so mighty boastful, child. ’Tisn’t becomin’ 
to ye, no more’s the pride ov ye. For ’tis meself knows 
you’ve no right to a name at all, and thim’s not the sort that 
makes gran’ ladies." 

The child flashed round on her like a little whirlwind. 
“ How dare you say that ? I’ll have a name, right or no right. 
If you hadn’t done what I axed ye to do I’d have run away ; 
I’d have worked for meself ; I wouldn’t have stayed here and 
lived this life any longer." 

Biddy looked at her reproachfully. “Whisht ye, child, 
don’t be after spakin’ like that. The Lord knows what will 
become ov ye at all, at all. Come in now to your supper, for 
faith ’tis Johanna Reardon I’m seein’ cornin’ up the sthreet, 
and if she stops here to gossip, wid her talk and her long 
wuurds, ’twill be night intirely before we get through, and I’m 
after bakin’ a griddle cake or two for ye, avic. So in wid ye 
at onst." 

The Swan was sailing gracefully up the street, her basket 
of wares under her shawl. 

This curious fraternity of beggars had each an ostensible 
means of livelihood, which deluded no one but themselves, 
but kept them within strictly legal bounds. One sold apples 
or nuts, another sweets, another pins and tapes. Their stock- 
in-trade seemed as undiminishable as the widow’s cruse of old, 
still it was profitable enough to themselves. 

When Johanna reached the Maguires’ cottage she marched 
up to the door and looked in, 


74 


KITTY THE BAG. 


God save all here, and good-day to ye ! Shure it’s quite 
a stranger ye are, Mrs. Maguire. Ah, ’tis well to have the 
pecuniary assistance of the quality — and a great matther, too ! 
I s’ pose ye’ve heard ov the superfluous banquet we’re after 
havin’ from Miss Hermia that was, bless her kind heart ! Oh ! 
’twas luxurious in the supreme, I do assure ye. ’Twould be 
hard to find a name for it. I was wondering not to see ye 
there partaking ov the counstibles ! ” 

^‘I’m not much acquainted wid the lady,” said Biddy 
shortly, ^^and I’m not beholden to charity yet, ma’am, for the 
bit or sup.” 

Ah, faith,” said the Swan, bridling, ’tis yourself is the 
proud woman, Mrs. Maguire, don’t we all know it? though 
your family’s come down in the world by a gineration or two. 
Ah, ’tis the fine pedigree you have, and the comfortable cir- 
cumstances you’re in. Shure it doesn’t take me two eyes to 
see the pictures* hangin’ up in yer palatial kitchen.” 

Will ye come in and take a seat?” asked Biddy. 

“I’m not disinclined to accept that same offer,” said the 
Swan, “and perhaps we may be doin’ a little bit o’ huckster- 
ing prisintly. Why, Kitty child, ’tis mighty gran’ ye are. 
Who’s bin dressin’ ye up like a Saint Bridget? We’ll not be 
callin’ ye Kitty the Rag any longer, for want o’ a more be- 
comin’ title.” 

“Niver mind my dress; tell me about the tea party,” said 
Kitty. “ Was the lady there herself? ” 

“She was, and as purlite and demonsthrative in the recip- 
tion ov us as a lady could be.” 

“ And what did ye have ? ” 

“ Have, is it? ah, ’twas grand if ye like. There was mate, 
and mate, and three kinds o’ mate, and lashins ov confection- 
ery and cakes, and presarves in glass dishes — oh, mighty 
grand, I assure ye — and the tay that strong ye might have got 
dhrunk on it if ye was inebriatedly inclined. Oh, ’twas a fine 
faste intirely ! I wonder ye didn’t drop in, Kitty child. 
There’s hapes o’ childer there now, devouring ov the fragmints 
that remain, and, indade, ’twas the Red Hen I caught fillin’ 
up her basket with ivery bit she could lay her hands on. De- 
maning ov yerself, I says. I’d be ashamed to do the likes o’ 
that. But here’s a bit ov cake for ye, child, that just dropped 
into me own bosket promiscuous like.” 


* Hams and bacon. 


KITTY THE RAG. 


75 


She lifted a corner of her shawl, revealing a well-stocked 
basket that contained a fair amount of the despised ‘<frag- 
mints.” Biddy pushed back her chair, and suggested busi- 
ness. 

“ What sort o’ article might ye be wantin’, Johanna? ” she 
asked. 

Well, ’twas a little bit ov a skirt I was thinkin’ of,” said 
Johanna. “ Maybe ye’ve been re-exportatin’ somethin’ o’ the 
sort lately.” 

Biddy produced a bundle from a dark cupboard, and began 
to display its contents. Kitty, not feeling interested in the 
haggling and criticism that ensued, walked off down the street 
in the direction of the cottage where the famous tea party had 
been held. 

She met the guests straggling along the village street, vocif- 
erous as inmates of a turkey-yard, and comparing notes on the 
various stages of ‘‘fulness” they had achieved, and all more 
or less possessed by a certain abdominal pride that was frankly 
demonstrated. 

They stopped to admire Kitty’s appearance, and to admin- 
ister counsel which had the sins and snares of vanity as a text. 

Kitty was not appreciative, however, and left them with 
scant ceremony, and less character. Their counsels changed 
to prophecies, and the child had evidently a most untoward 
fate before her, judging from the prophets. 

Happily for her, she was as much without faith as without 
feeling. Having always been more or less of an outcast, she 
was more resentful of treatment than sensitive to it. She 
marched along with her head in the air, her scarlet frock flut- 
tering, and her rich locks flying about her shoulders, a picture 
of untamed beauty that appealed even to her persecutors. 

“ She’s just aten up wid pride and concait, the crathur ! ” 
they said, but the child was well out of hearing, and cared 
nothing for their opinions. 

The scene of the tea party was a scene of confusion now, 
for a number of the children had elected to make free with 
the remains, and were scrambling for cakes and lumps of 
sugar, and smearing themselves with jam, and generally enjoy- 
ing themselves in a squashed and uproarious manner. 

Kitty surveyed them with unmitigated contempt. “ Ah, ye 
pack o’ greedy blayguards ! One ’ud think ye’d niver seen a 
bit ov food from Monday till Saturday ! ” she cried. 

They turned on her and began an odd mixture of expletives 


76 


KITTY THE BAG. 


and execrations that in times of yore had often resulted in a 
free fight. But the dignity inspired by her scarlet frock and 
her new prospects came to Kitty’s aid. 

She only relieved her feelings by a few choice bits of 
'‘strong” Irish, and then marched off, leaving them in happy 
possession of fragments more or less delectable. 

She took a field path and followed it up for a long distance, 
skirting the fast-ripening grain, and only stopping now and 
then to gather the flaring scarlet poppies. She wanted to be 
alone. She wanted to think of the new change so soon to 
alter all her life, and all her preconceived ideas. 

Any one looking at her would have felt that it would be no 
easy task to tutor her in a domestic atmosphere. There was 
something wild and untamable about her; her eyes had the 
glow of eyes that meet one in the shadows of forest leaves, in 
the caged bondage of Thier Garten or menagerie. Their 
vivid glare and brilliance was suggestive of innate rebellion 
against the control and restrictions of social life. She had 
been a liliputian scourge in the village ever since she could 
raise her voice and her hands in juvenile warfare. She had 
always been a prominent, though never a popular, element in 
it. Now she almost wondered at the distaste she felt for those 
bold-faced, ragged urchins. She was conscious of a craving 
for a future in all respects different to this past; of unshaped 
ambitions, of unachieved deeds. She seemed to sight a rich 
argosy of possibilities on the horizon of childhood. There 
were no words to describe it, no experience to express it. It 
might turn out a crazy wreck, it might contain a priceless 
cargo. 

She stopped at last and threw herself down admist the rich 
waving grain, her hands elapsed behind her head, her eyes on 
the blue sky above, where a few tiny clouds were drifting like 
scattered rose-leaves. The peace and silence around appealed 
by the attraction of contrast to her turbulent nature. The 
calm was so intense, it soothed her as the touch of a cool hand 
soothes a hot brow. 

“They say God lives up there,” so ran her thoughts. 
“ God who knows everything. Then He knows who I am. . 

. . Ah, but it’s so far away He is, and the blessed Mary too. 
They might as well be dumb and deaf for all the sign they 
make. I wonder if it’s thrue what the priests say, all ov it. 
Maybe they’ve just made it up. What do they tell us? 
What good is the holy water ? Shure it’s niver taken a drop 


KITTY THE RAO. 


77 


o* wickedness out ov me, nor made Jim give up his dhrink or 
his lazy ways, nor stopped any ov the thaivin’ or lyin’ that 
goes on in the village. And the candles agin? What does 
God or the saints want us to be burnin’ candles for, when onst 
the poor souls are dead and gone? Shure, if they’re in an- 
other world how can they see thim at all ? Oh ! I’m just tired 
o’ puzzlin’ it all out. Maybe they’ll tache me better where 
I’m goin’ to next. I want to know so badly. It’s just hi 
me; I can’t help it, nor spake of it. Only I want to know, 
and I mane to.” 

She lay there for long ; so long that the light had died out 
of the sky, and a soft rain began to fall in the twilight. But 
the child only lifted her flushed face thirstily to the glittering 
drops. Rain and mist and sunshine half commingled made 
the moist air she had always remembered as her own special 
climate. Bareheaded she went homewards in that soft veiling 
drizzle — caring nothing that her hair was wet, and her frock 
soakfed. 

Biddy was standing by the door knitting. She had tidied 
up the kitchen and completed her “deal ” with Johanna Rear- 
don, and seen Jim depart to his favorite haunt, and had leisure 
now to vex herself with anxiety on Kitty’s account. 

“ Shure and I know it’s not ov much account to worry over 
the weather,” she said, glancing at the darkening sky. “ Still 
the child would be better indoors. But, there, what’s the use 
ov talkin’ at all ? She’s the wild slip and always will be, and 
havin’ her own way since the first moment her tongue could 
spake the will ov her ! Ah, wisha-wisha ! ’tis well we’re not 
cut all out in the same pattern, let the prastes talk as they may. 
We can’t feel alike, nor spake alike, nor think alike, and a 
blessed thing we can’t either; and sure, ’tis the blessed Lord 
made us so, for though water is water, there’s a mighty great 
difference between the say and the duckpond yonder. Ah, 
and here’s Kitty herself — the nager. And dhrippin’ wet, too. 
Where have you been, child? ” 

“ Only in the fields beyant. I lay down and fell aslape,” 
said Kitty, shaking herself like a water spaniel. 

“Come in and dhry yourself, alannah. Himself is out — 
goin’ to a matin’ yonder.” 

“Which manes he’ll come home dhrunk, and abuse ye, 
Biddy.” 

“Thrue for ye, darlin’. ’Tis poor luck I’ve had with the 
crathur, for all he seemed a dacent sort o’ lad whin I married 


78 


Kirrr the rag. 


him. Ah, Kitty aroon, wimmin has a bad time ov it one way 
and another ; a hard time intirely, what wid their husbands 
and their children, and the throubles o’ life. Oh, dear, dear, 
’tis wonderin’ why we’re born at all I am. Oh ! I wish that 
drunken fool ov a man would come home, Kitty. It’s not so 
often I’m there that he should be laivin’ me alone in this fash- 
ion.” 

Biddy,” said the child abruptly, ^‘where’s your son? 
Why doesn’t he come home and help ye ? ” 

^‘Eugene, is it? Ah, the fine handsome lad he was, and 
niver an hour’s throuble to me since the hour he was born, the 
saints be praised. Ah, ’tis far over the says he is, darlin’, 
hundreds ov miles away. He’s makin’ his fortune. I’ve no 
doubt, and thin he’ll come home to me.” 

Why did you let him go ? ” asked the child curiously. 

“ ’Twas for his own good, and by the advice ov the praste. 
He’s gone now, the saints reward him ! Shure he was the 
dacentest man in the seven parishes, and that help to Eugene 
wid his schoolin’. For he w'as mighty clever, and wid a voice 
— Ah, Kitty, ’twould wile the heart out ov a stone.” 

She wiped her eyes. It always upset her to talk of her boy, 
the idol of her heart, the bright, buoyant youth who had 
sailed away from this land eight long years ago. 

Why doesn’t he write?” continued the child curiously. 
** Surely he could do that.” 

‘^God between us and all harm!” cried Biddy, crossing 
herself with fervor. Shure, child, that’s what me poor 
heart has been axin’ all these weary years. But there’s no 
knowin’. He maybe among the goldfields, or the nigger folk, 
and niver a post office or a dacint shop in the whole country. 
In course then he couldn’t be writin’ to any one. Oh, I must 
just be patient, Kitty child. God will send him back maybe 
before me ould eyes close for iver, and so I just do my work, 
and I won’t be after makin’ a banshee o’ myself, though I 
could do it with a whole heart this present minnit.” 

She rose from her seat, and dried her eyes vigorously. 
** Come along now, Kitty child,” she said, ’tis time ye was 
in bed and gettin’ a good slape before himself comes in with 
his ballyhoolin’ and rantin’. Faith he’s the dhrunken disgrace 
to be a dacint woman’s husband, though I’d not be sayin’ it to 
any one but you, Kitty avick.” 

** Why don’t you go away ? ” asked the child. “ Why do 


KITTY THE BAG. 79 

wimrain live with bad husbands ? 'Tis foolish. I wouldn’t 
do it.” 

Faith and ye would, darlin’, if ye had one. ’Tis the will 
ov the Lord, and we must put up wid it. Shure don’t the 
prastes tell us that whin they marry us ? ” 

‘‘The prastes — always the prastes,” said Kitty contemptu- 
ously. “Why should we be mindin’ i very word they say? 
’Tis too frightened o’ prastes ye all are, Biddy, and small good 
they do ye. Why should they be havin’ the ear o’ God any 
more than ourselves ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, whisht, whisht,” said Biddy affrightedly. “ ’Tis a 
sin to talk like that, child ; and Father Egan will be putting a 
pinnince on ye, av he hears ov it.” 

“I don’t care for his pinnince or himself,” answered the 
child audaciously, “and as for sending ye to purgatory, as 
Pat O’Grady says they can, well I’m thinkin’ God will settle 
where we’re to go, and not be wantin’ a praste to tell Him 
His own duties ! ” 

With which heretical declaration she flung herself out of the 
little dark kitchen and went up to her loft, leaving Biddy in a 
state of dismayed wonder. 

“ The saints presarve us, what’s come to the child at all ! 
How did she get hould ov such idays? Shure, ’tis that old 
blayguard of a Jim has been gettin’ ear ov her. Bedad, it’s a 
terrible thing to be a dimmygog, as Johanna Reardon called 
the man this blessed night ! And I not to know the manin’ 
ov the wuurd, and she givin’ it the lingth and breadth ov her 
tongue wid all the assurance ov a scholar. Not but I purtinded 
it was a dacent sort o’ wuurd enough, and a great help to his 
spechifying. Shure, didn’t Father Egan say in his sermon av 
Sunday morning, ‘ A fellow-feelin’ makes us powerful kind ’ ? 
And that’s thrue enough ! ” 


80 


KITTY THE BAG, 


CHAPTER XII. 

Mrs. Montressor was dining at Knockrea in company with 
the Kilmaynes and Dr. Carrick. On the morrow the Ellings- 
worths were leaving Ireland. 

The two friends were talking earnestly together by the open 
window. Mrs. Kilmayne sat turning over an album by a table 
a short distance off. 

I am so sorry to go — so sorry to leave you,” said Lady 
Ellingsworth. “ It has been a new life to me here. You have 
done me so much good.” 

Judith Montressor looked fondly at the beautiful face, soft- 
ened out of all its pride and coldness by genuine emotion. 

*‘My regrets are quite as sincere,” she said. “But the 
autumn will soon be here, and then I am to be with you, as we 
have arranged. I hope you won’t have a large house party, 
my dear. I am exacting enough to like to keep my friends to 
myself when I have the chance.” 

“ They will be chiefly Ellingsworth’s friends at Yarrow,” 
said Hermia; “ horsey men, and men who sum up their day’s 
enjoyment by the bags they’ve made. I seldom ask more than 
one or two women.” ^ 

“It is a long time since I’v^ stayed in England,” observed 
Mrs. Montressor. “ Of course passing through and hotels don’t 
count. I shall feel quite strange. There are few things more 
trying than to go amongst new surroundings, and people 
totally different to those one is accustomed to.” 

Lady Ellingsworth smiled. “I should fancy you would 
never feel strange or ill at ease anywhere,” she said. 

“ Me dear Lady Ellingsworth, I can’t find a portrait of you 
anywhere,” interposed Mrs. Kilmayne. “ There’s your dear 
mother — how like you are to her — only her hair had more of 
the weave in it, and your sister that died of typhus here, be- 
fore your papa got the drains to his liking. And your three 
brothers. Ah ! 'tis sad to think they’re all gone — such a fine 
family as ye were.” 

“Are all your brothers and sisters dead?” asked Judith 
Montressor. 


Kitty the hag. 


81 


“Yes, and all by accidents. It was very terrible.” 

She approached the table. “ No, I’m not there, Mrs. Kil- 
mayne. I never had ray photograph taken as a child.” 

“ But isn’t there a picture of you anywhere in the house? ” 
asked Mrs. Montressor. 

She shook her head. “ No, my father never seemed to care 
for one. Of course I have plenty of photographs of myself at 
home, but he never expressed a wish for one, and so I never 
sent one to him.” 

Mrs. Montressor looked at her thoughtfully. Mrs. Kilmayne 
turned over the leaves of the album and descanted on the 
various persons it offered for criticism. 

“Ah — fashion’s a strange thing, my dear,” she said. “I 
remember when I was married, and the way we had our skirts 
cut — and plenty of fulness for the pleats — and very useful it 
was, for I’ve turned my own wedding gown three times. 
'Twas a beautiful material — apple-blossom silk, and ray dear 
mamma, she didn’t grudge the price of it. ‘ You’re a careful 
girl, Clara,’ she said, * and it will last you five years at the 
least.’ ‘Five, mamma?’ I said; ‘twenty, more like.’ And 
I’ve got it to this day, me dear Lady Ellingsworth ; and only 
for getting stout and not being able to match the bodice any 
way, I could use it still. Ah ! my dears, girls were brought up 
to be careful in those days, and no waste or throwing things 
aside because of getting a bit old fashioned. And the more 
you wear it the better it looks. But now. I’m forgetting, 
times are changed. Indeed, I was saying to Mrs. Blake the 
other day — the Mrs. Blake at Ashford, you know, and first 
cousin to Major Kenealy, who, by the way, is a connection of 
Lord Dunsane’s by the mother’s side — well, I was telling Mrs. 
Blake that she encourages her daughter too much in extrava- 
gance of dress. ‘Look at my own girls,’ I said, — ‘not but 
what they’re all married and set up for themselves now — why, 
one new gown a year was as much as ever they had, and a 
piece of muslin or print for a summer frock, and they always 
looked stylish.’ I daresay you remember them. Lady Ellings- 
worth?” 

“Yes, quite well,” said Hermia, with a glance of commis- 
seration at her friend’s bored face. 

This sort of talk, as an exception, was amusing; as a rule, 
rather wearisome. 

“Not but what you both look the pink of elegance,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Kilmayne, “and ’tis quite dowdy I feel beside 

6 


82 


KITTY THE BAG. 


you ; but then poor Edward has enough to do with his parish 
and his expenses, and I can’t be asking him for any more new 
gowns in addition. Not that he’d deny me anything. He’s 
been a good husband from the day we married up to this pres- 
ent moment. Ah, my dear Lady Ellingsworth, it’s not many 
wives can say that.” 

Lady Ellingsworth colored slightly as she met Judith Mon- 
tressor’s keen eyes. She moved restlessly about the room and 
finally went over to the piano. 

“Ah, now do sing us something — ’tis quite a Grisi you are 
to us here ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Kilmayne. “ I’ve often thought 
of that night I heard you — ’twas beautiful. You weren’t here, 
Mrs. Montressor. No, it was before that Sunday I introduced 
you to Lady Ellingsworth ; little I thought what friends ye’d 
become — David and Jonathan in the female line, as I was say- 
ing to the vicar. Ah ! that’s the tune, Lady Ellingsworth. 
Me own dear Margaretta used to sing it when she came back 
from the boarding-school in Dublin — Miss Flaherty’s was the 
name of it — ah, beautiful ! beautiful ! ” 

Her voice stilled insensibly as the chords resolved themselves 
into a flowing accompaniment. The sweet, pathetic air thrilled 
out — passionate and soul-stirring as the nightingale’s own 
plaint of woe. 


As Lady Ellingsworth finished she found the gentlemen had 
left the dining-room by the window opening on to the terrace. 
They were standing in a group now by the open windows of 
the drawing-room and listening to her. 

“What a grand voice,” said Dr. Garrick, winking away a 
tear from his grey eyelashes. 

“I can never get her to sing before people !” exclaimed 
Lord Ellingsworth ; “ she says it’s not worth while, or they 
wouldn’t understand, or something of that sort. I’m sure no 
one could help understanding her singing ! ” 

“Or feeling it, which is more to the point,” said Mr. Kil- 
mayne. “What expression she threw into that ballad! I 
hope. Lord Ellingsworth, we have managed to awaken a little 
of your sympathy for Erin’s sons and daughters. You won’t 
go back to your more fortunate land and forget us.” 

He walked the young marquis off, and they strolled up and 
down the terrace talking earnestly, while Dr. Garrick and 


KITTY THE RAO. 


83 


Philip Marsden smoked their cigars, and listened to Mrs. 
Montressor interpreting the Moonlight Sonata. 

Lady Ellingsworth had seated herself upon a low ottoman 
beside the piano, and the two talked in subdued voices as the 
soft melody rippled on. 

“Music says so much for one,” said Hermia. “It is the 
expression of all that is in one’s soul, I think.” 

• “ Artists say it only says for us what we tell to it.” 

<< Yes — it is a great relief.” 

“Now, listen to this. I’m not going on with Beethoven. 
I wrote it years ago, when I had dreams of being an artist. 
As if a woman was ever allowed to be anything, once she puts 
her life into the bondage of man’s exactions ! Tell me, does 
it say anything to you, Hermia? ” 

Hermia listened. Her face flushed slightly ; her eyes grew 
troubled. 

“ There is something wild — something desperate in it,” she 
said. “That note — it is like a cry — it is always coming in.” 

Mrs. Montressor nodded. “I was in Paris — the streets 
were a blaze of light. Men sat outside the cafes sipping ab- 
sinthe, smoking, laughing and jesting. I can see it all when 
I play this. The green and shifting liquid in the glasses, like 
a snake’s eye — cruel, opal, changeful: a reflection of all things 
evil in an evil and corrupt city. A woman’s rustling skirts — 
the perfume of the cocotte — the light laugh — the bold, invit- 
ing look. Ah ! could one breathe that atmosphere and not 
feel soul-soiled ? Even Art was polluted. A picture gallery 
was to me but a revelation of an artist’s impure dreams. Na- 
ture lost all beauty, all divinity. One felt that to be a woman 
there meant only one thing.” 

The chords crashed out stormily. That one weird motifs 
like the cry of a lost soul, thrilled out its last despairing plaint 
— then died into silence. 

They both rose. Hermia was strangely pale. “ Oh ! ” 
she cried faintly. “ Was your life like that? ” 

“ I think many women’s lives are like that,” said Judith 
Montressor bitterly. “It is hard to remain true to our best 
when everything tends to foster our worst. It is not only 
natural events that are bitter to us — time and change — but the 
circumstances of our daily life. And then the iron enters our 
souls.” 

“Yes,” said Hermia, “and gives its coloring to them. 


84 


KITTY THE BAG. 


One seems to lose one’s individuality — the effort to live a 
noble personal life becomes futile.” 

And our dreams seem the best part of it after all. Pity 
it is that men and the world so easily rob us of them. The 
one gives us the cares of a household — the duties of motherhood 

and considers we have no further cause for discontent ; the 

other mocks every effort — scoffs at purity, and laughs down 
ideals.” 

‘^Here come our noble antagonists,” said Hermia, as the 
door opened. 

There was no time for further confidence. The hour of 
parting was at hand, and that meant to-night the hour of pro- 
longed separation. 

“You won’t forget — you will come to me soon?” whispered 
Hermia, as they said good-bye. 

“Whenever you want me,” was the answer. “I do not 
easily forget. We Irish are only fickle when we don’t care for 
a person. Perhaps it is to our own credit that we do care so 
seldom.” 


“ I should like a word with you, Hermia,” said her father, 
as they reentered the drawing-room. “You will excuse a 
father’s exactions, I am sure, Ellingsworth. What I have to 
say could have no possible interest for you.” 

“If it is on the eternal Irish question, certainly not,” said 
Lord Ellingsworth good humoredly. “ So I’ll smoke a cigar 
in the billiard-room — ^and then go to bed.” 

Hermia’s face had regained its old composure — its old hard- 
ness. Experience had taught her that a tete-a-tete with her 
father was not likely to be of an agreeable nature. 

He took a seat and motioned her to do the same. “ I will 
not detain you long,” he said. “I wish merely to give you 
some general idea of the value of this property. You are, of 
course, aware that I can leave it to whom I please.” 

She looked surprised. “ No,” she said, “ I was not aware of 
that. I had an idea that it was my mother’s.” 

“ It came to her in a very roundabout way, and so burdened 
with mortgages that it took more than half my capital to free 
it. Since then I have spared no expense and no trouble to 
bring it into its present condition. I introduced a new sys- 
tem of agriculture ; of drainage, planting, and fruit culture. 


KITTY THE BAG, 


85 


I tried to revive cottage industries, but I must say I failed 
there. These people are dormant, stagnant, and behind the 
times in every respect. They are admirably lazy, and admir- 
ably untruthful. They might live in industry, peace and com- 
fort, did they but choose — but they don’t choose. However, 
what I wish to say is this. Do not imagine that because this 
property came to me through your mother that I am obliged 
to leave it to her side of the house instead of my own. And 
do not, on the strength of future expectations, permit your 
husband to ruin himself, as he seems inclined to do. Your 
settlements are not exceptional, and if you have no children 
the property, of course, goes to the next male heir — a cousin 
of Ellingsworth’s, I believe.” 

May I ask,” she said, why you are telling me all this? ” 

**More as a warning than anything else. You are both 
young. You are both reckless in the matter of expenditure. 
But money doesn’t last for ever — especially with two such es- 
tablishments as yours in Park Lane and Yorkshire. If a smash 
ever occurs, remember I foresaw it and forewarned you.” 

Hermia laughed. 

I think your prognostications are hardly likely to be real- 
ized,” she said. “ Ellingsworth is extravagant, I know, but 
still he is enormously rich.” 

beg your pardon,” corrected her father coldly. He 
was enormously rich — he is not so at the present moment.” 

** Well, rich enough for all intents and purposes,” she said 
indifferently. ‘^If that is all you have to say, father, I will 
wish you good-night. I am rather tired, and we have a long 
journey before us to-morrow.” 

She rose and yawned slightly behind her delicate white hand. 

He looked at her with the same chill smile on his lips that 
had of late so often dwelt there. 

Good-night,” he said. am glad your marriage has 

turned out so well. Ellingsworth is really a model husband.” 

Her brow contracted slightly. ^‘He has many virtues that 
other men lack,” she said. 

** Is jealousy among them? If so I should advise you not 
to give him cause. Of course, nowadays, sensible people 
don’t elevate matrimony into a sacrament. It is simply a con- 
tract for mutual advantage. Love lies far apart from it.” 

He saw her face pale suddenly. Their eyes met. ‘^I — I 
wish I could understand you,” she said. “ You speak as if I 
were a stranger to you. You have always treated me as if — as 


KITTY THE BAG, 


if I were not your child at all. Why is it ? What has been 
my fault ? I am not speaking of — of that piece of folly now. 
I mean long before, when I was but a little child running wild 
here — no one’s charge — no one’s care.” 

Her voice broke. Tears rushed to the beautiful, proud 
eyes. 

** You are right,” he said. I have never loved you ; but 
at least I am perfectly just. Most fathers would have turned 
you out of doors to earn your own bread. I kept you under 
my roof, and married you to a man who at least adores you, 
and can give you everything you desire. It was my duty, and 
I have never shrunk from duty, even if it were distasteful. 
But now I feel my obligation is ended. I have explained your 
position, and my perfect right to do what I please with 
Knockrea. You must never blame me if in the future antici- 
pations are not justified by results. And now allow me to 
wish you good-night. Ellingsworth will be wondering at your 
long absence.” 

He took her hand in his cold reluctant grasp. He rarely 
kissed her. He did not do so now. Then he opened the 
door and watched her cross the hall, and go up the broad 
staircase. 

He came back slowly, and began to pace the room with 
measured, even steps — deliberate, as most of his actions were. 

** I have spoken as plainly as I dare,” he said. ** She will 
remember this interview some day.” 


KITTY THE BAG, 


87 


CHAPTER XIII. 

You tould me to bring the child, sir. Come in Kitty, 
don’t be hangin’ back like that. Make your curtsy to the 
gintleman.” 

Philip Marsden lifted his head and looked at the two intrud- 
ers. *^I’ve seen her running wild about the village,” he re- 
marked ; “ but — well you’ve made a transformation in her 
appearance, Biddy.” 

** Beggin’ your honor’s pardin, I’ve managed to git some 
dacint clothes together, and I always kape her clane whin I’m 
at home. It’s whin I’m away, sir, she gits so wild and out- 
rageous-lookin’.” 

The cold, steely eyes were taking merciless survey of the 
pretty elf. Her wild shy glance, her changing color, only 
added to the charm of her appearance. 

** Well, Kitty,” he said with a sort of effort, ** so you want 
to go to school and leave rags and dirt behind you. Is that 
it?” 

Yes, sir,” she said simply, and speaking with a careful 
pronunciation of right vowels, that she could assume when she 
pleased. 

‘‘ Ah, well, you may change your opinion, you know, when 
you’ve had a taste of discipline. You come of a race that 
never took kindly to it. Have you learnt anything at all yet ? ” 

“I’ve been to the school in the village, sir, on and off. 
They don’t tache you much.” 

Mr. Marsden knitted his brows. “ If you went to a proper 
school at once,” he said, “I’m afraid you would be rather 
out of your element. I happen to know two old maiden 
ladies in England, who take a few girls to educate and bring 
up, so that they may earn their own livelihood some day. It 
will be a useful modern education, and when you are sixteen, 
you ought to be able to do for yourself. However, that is a 
long look forward. You must make up your mind to be per- 
fectly obedient, and to try and get out of all your rude, rough 
habits. If not, they will send you back again, and I shall 
take no further interest in you,” 


88 


KITTY THE BAG, 


<^Ah! shure, sir, she’ll be a good child enough,” said 
Biddy. ‘‘ If the ladies you spake of are only pashent wid her 
for a while, there’ll not be much throuble afterwards.” 

Mr. Marsden’s keen eyes were still on the child’s face. Her 
eyes were roving to and fro, taking in all the beauty and artis- 
tic fitness of the room. 

“ The likeness is wonderful,” he said to himself. “ Won- 
derful ! She will serve my purpose admirably.” 

Then he turned again to Biddy. You quite understand,” 
he said ; “ once a year she will come over to Ireland, and may 
stay with you if she wishes. For the rest of the time she 
must make up her mind to study hard and improve herself. I 
will give you a sum of money to provide her with clothes and 
a trunk, of course. Don’t let her set off to England with the 
proverbial ‘ bundle.’ You must get what she requires in 
Limerick. She will start in a week. I have arranged for 
some one to take her.” 

Biddy wiped her eyes. ’Tis mighty hard partin’ wid her ; 
but shure ’tis for her good, the darlin’, and I’ve always felt 
the day would come whin ” 

A warning look cut short her words. “That is all I have 
to say then. This day week, remember, she must start. My 
housekeeper will give you a list of suitable garments for her ; 
and here is a sum that should suffice for all.” 

He handed her some notes, which she took with a profound 
curtsy, and placed carefully in the bosom of her gown. Kitty 
looked on with more curiosity than gratitude. 

This hard, cold-looking man, with his chill smile and un- 
gracious manner, seemed the last sort of person to play bene- 
factor. She was wondering why he took this interest in her ; 
what claim Biddy had on him. However, the bargain was 
concluded. She had made her parting curtsy, and Biddy was 
hurrying her down the hall, and to the servants’ quarters, be- 
fore she found opportunity to ask the question. 

Biddy shut her up promptly. “ Don’t ye be too curious, 
child. ’Tis a bad thing intirely, and wasn’t a holy woman in 
the Good Book itself turned into a pillar o’ salt for that same 
sin ? Shure, Father Reilly told me so his own self, whin I 
axed him the name o’ his new housekeeper. The gintleman’s 
goin’ to befriend ye, and the rayson ov it don’t consarn ye a 
bit. And whisht ye now, and remimber your manners, for 
the housekeeper here is a gran’ lady intirely, and ’tis quite an 
Jipnor to be resay ved in her apartment,” 


KITTY THE RAG. 


89 


Meanwhile, Philip Marsden sat on for long after they had 
left the library, gazing moodily out of the open windows, the 
frown on his brow deepening every moment. 

At last he rose, and going over to an old-fashioned escri- 
toire in one corner of the room he unlocked it, and took from 
the drawer a packet of letters. They were tied with a rose- 
colored ribbon, faded now like the ink with which they were 
written. Slowly and deliberately he untied the ribbon, and 
read the letters one by one. 

“ To think,” he said in a low voice of intense anger, “that 
the grave holds their secret — that I shall never know ! That 
all my life I am to be haunted by this hateful suspicion. Why 
don’t I burn them? I shall never learn the truth now. No, 
they will aid my revenge. They will be the only legacy I 
shall leave to — Lady Ellingsworth. ^ Lady ’ Ellingsworth — 
how well she has done for herself. How well she has kept her 
secret. How little she dreams of the Nemesis I have set on 
her track.” 

He tied the letters together with the faded ribbon, and re- 
placed them in the secret drawer. 

Then he opened another drawer and took out a large folded 
parchment. He stood there for long, reading it slowly, the 
frown on his brow darkening as he turned the crackling pages. 

“I must alter it now,” he said. “I will send for old 
Dillon to-morrow. It is a great scheme ; it will avenge and 
justify and reward all in one. I think I have considered 
every possibility. I see no chance that could break it down.” 

Slowly and carefully he replaced the document, his thin 
lips relaxing into their old cynical curves as he locked the 
escritoire again. Then he went in to luncheon, with still the 
shadow of that smile hovering about his mouth. 


Mrs. Geoghagan, the housekeeper at Knockrea, was an in- 
veterate gossip. 

Any one who dropped in on her was expected to regale her 
with all the news of the place — the births, and deaths, and 
marriages, and wakes — the christenings and quarrelings of 
the village. 

Talk was as much as necessity to her as her dinner or her 
attendance at morning church. She came of a family who 
had suffered from that worst of misfortunes— “ seeing better 
days.” It was at once a lamentation and a boast on her lips, 


90 


KITTY THE BAG, 


as the society of the moment conduced to pride, or allowed 
of reminiscences. 

She and the dalin' woman were old friends. She welcomed 
her, therefore, with the frankness of intimacy, and the curios- 
ity recently set afire by her master's startling information that 
he intended to provide for Biddy’s wild waif. 

** Ah, Mrs. Maguire, I was expecting you,” she said heartily. 
^^Sit down now, and tell me all about it. 'Tis a wonderful 
piece of luck for the child. Wonderful indeed ! I was fairly 
taken aback when Mr. Marsden told me yesterday. There — 
there — but of course the gentry has their little secrets too. 
Not but what I’ve often thought you could throw plenty o’ 
light on the history of Kitty there — if you chose to do it — but 
you’re the close one, Biddy Maguire, when it serves your pur- 
pose. Ah ! a wink’s not lost on me ; I know what you mean, 
woman. Kitty child, if ye’ll run down to the servants’ hall 
there’ll be some bread and jam for you. Ask Mary Flanna- 
ghan to give it to you — the red-haired girl. You’ll find the 
way straight enough. It’s the other end of that passage be- 
yond the baize doors. Be off with you now.” 

Kitty obeyed with alacrity. She didn’t want to hear the 
gossip, but she did want the bread and jam. 

“ And now, Biddy, what’s the meaning of it all? ” asked 
Mrs. Geoghagan, when they were alone. ‘‘ ’Twas fairly dazed 
I was when the master says to me, * Make out a list of cloth- 
ing — every sort of garment,’ he says, ‘such as a young lady 
would be requiring at school.’ He said ‘ young lady,’ Biddy ; 
and then to hear ’twas Kitty herself was to be educated and 
set up ! Well, miracles isn’t over, I says to myself. Why, 
’twas more than he ever troubled about poor Miss Hermy, that 
it was. Now, what’s the meaning of it all, Biddy? ” 

“Troth thin, Mary Geoghagan, meself is no wiser than ye 
are. 'Tis just a fancy he took to the purty child, and maybe 
he’s a bit kinder hearted than we’re after supposin’.” 

“Ah, then, Mrs. Maguire, it’s keeping your own secrets 
ye’d be, is it ? What about the night you came here and saw 
the master in the library? What about the going away to the 
seaside, eh, Mrs. Maguire? Don’t be after trying to throw 
the dust in my eyes, for though I’ve come down in the world 
I have my own proper pride, and know what’s due to me.” 

“God forbid I’d be afther trying to decaive ye, ma’am,” 
said Biddy fervently. “Shure ’tis just out of kindness the 
masther is doin’ it. It’s thrue for ye I came here one evening 


KITTY THE BAG. 


91 


to see himself, but ’twas on account of rint and the throuble 
o’ that ould blayguard ov a husband o’ mine. Faith and that’s 
gospel truth, Mrs. Geoghagan ; and says he, ‘ ’Tis a shame 
that purty child should be running wild about the place.’ I 
sez, ‘It is, sir,’ and that she was allays axin me to have her 
taught dacintly ; and what a love o’ lamin’ she had, and the 
quickness ov her, and the memory — oh, grand entirely ; and 
says he, ‘ I’d not mind doin’ ye a kindness, Biddy Maguire ; 
and I’ll have the child edicated and taught to earn her own 
livin’ ; ’ and shure as I’m a livin’ woman that was all that 
passed betwane us, until he sends word to me to come up this 
mornin’, just as I was tidyin’ up the place, and that great lazy 
otnadhaun lying on the broad ov his back wid his eyes shut, 
and divil a sthroke’s work in him this week past.” 

She stopped for want of breath, and looked at Mrs. Geogha- 
gan with eyes of unabashed innocence. 

“ It’s a pretty tale entirely,” said that lady. “ But as for 
the truth of it — well, Biddy, I’m thinkin’ Father Egan will be 
putting the penance on you if you go to confession next Sun- 
day.” 

“Ah, now,” said Biddy slyly, “is it yourself tells ivery 
wuurd ov truth thim times, Mrs. Geoghagan? Why, ’tis 
turning ov ye inside out, they’d like to be, and knowin’ your 
own affairs and your neighbors’ too, and pinnince if ye tell, 
and pinnince if ye don’t tell; and I’m thinkin’ the masther 
wouldn’t like his business blabbered to the praste’s ears, for 
he’s a mighty particular man, and saycret as the grave if he’s 
a mind to be that same.” 

“Oh, never mind the priests,” said Mrs. Geoghagan. 
“ They’re all very well in their way, but we know how much 
’tis best to tell them.” 

“Shure ’tis a quare sort ov affair altogither,” said Biddy, 
“but a mighty throuble off my mind all the same. The child 
is too purty and too clever for the place ov her.” 

‘ ‘ There now ! ’ ’ exclaimed Mrs. Geoghagan triumphantly ; 
“wasn’t I saying there was a mystery? You’ve always told 
us that Kitty’s mother was a poor girl who had been deceived, 
and you had found her dying and taken the child out of pity. 
Now, answer me this, Biddy Maguire — why should she be too 
clever and too fine for her place if she came only of poor par- 
ents — or peasant folk? Answer me that.” 

Biddy shook her head. “Faith, ma’am, I couldn’t. 
Maybe it’s what Johanna Reardon calls the laws of primogen- 


92 


KITTY THE BAO, 


iture — though the manin’ o’ that the saints can tell better than 
meself. ’ ’ 

“ Who was Kitty’s mother? ” demanded Mrs. Geoghagan. 

“Is it her name ye want? Shure, I never axed her — the 
poor craythur was in Mnortal extremis,’ as they say, and 
couldn’t be worried. She’d been trampin’ the country, and 
’twas on the coast — at a place called Derrynane she was took 
bad, and faith, ’twas an awful time, and only meself to help 
her — and all she sez was, ‘ Take care o’ the child, for the love 
o’ heaven — she’s no father,’ she says — and then she dies. 
And niver a sign more, nor a scrap ov paper, nor a sign of a 
weddin’ ring — and that’s all.” 

“A poor story enough,” said Mrs. Geoghagan; “and 
mighty mysterious, I must say. How old would you say the 
child was? ” 

“Oh, a matter ov eight years or so,” said Biddy. 

“Eight years?” Mrs. Geoghagan rose from her chair. 
“ Will you be goin’ to the kitchen for some dinner now, Mrs. 
Maguire? Eight years — eight years.” 

“What ovthat?” asked Biddy sharply. “No, thank ye, 
I won’t be stayin’ to ate anything to-day; ye’re lookin’ mighty 
mysterious, ma’am, all ov a sudden.” 

“ I was trying to think where Mr. Marsden was eight years 
ago. If ye remember, the house was shut up, and he was 
away for a long time in England. We all thought ” 

“Shure, that’s nuthin’, here nor there,” said Biddy in- 
differently. 

“No, perhaps not. Only I remember he wrote me a 
letter saying he was coming home on a certain day, and to 
have the place ready for him. Well, Biddy Maguire, I’ve 
kept that letter by me all these years, and never thought 
more of it. Wait a moment, woman. I’ll show ye the 
envelope. I’ve got it in my desk here.” 

She unlocked an old-fashioned desk, and turned over a pile 
of receipts, documents, letters. Finally she took out a packet 
of letters, all in the same handwriting — clear, small, precise. 

“ These are the masther’s letters,” she said. “ I happened 
to be looking over them the other day, and I noticed this one 
had a postmark I’d never noticed. Look for yourself, Biddy 
Maguire. There’s the date and the month all correct, and the 
name of the place where it was posted.” 

Biddy came forward and took the envelope in her hand. The 
date was eight years before. The postmark was — Kenmare, 


KITTY THE BAG. 


93 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Kitty stood before her neat school trunk contemplating its 
contents with ecstasy. 

Such garments seemed altogether too wonderful and 
marvelous to be her own — and yet they were. The terrier 
was walking round, sniffing at the box, and looking 
anxiously up at the absorbed face that had no memory of 
him now. By the fireplace sat Jim Maguire, smoking his 
pipe, and holding forth on the rights of property and the 
wrongs of the working class. 

Biddy was bustling about trying to keep up her spirits by 
a show of activity, and relieving her mind by an occasional 
snap at her husband, whom she addressed by such endear- 
ments as : Ye sour, bloodthirsty ould Turk ; ye unbelavin’, 

unthankful haythin. If ye’re clever wid your tongue, it’s 
more than ye are wid your hands. If it weren’t for me, 
where’d ye be at this prisint minnit? ” 

*‘I don’t hould wid settin’ up the child in this fashion,” 
observed Jim in an interval of silence, “ and I don’t under- 
stand the rights ov it. Shure, ’tis meself ’ud have made a 
better use ov the money any day.” 

** You ! ” exclaimed Biddy with scorn. ’Tis in the 
public house it ’ud go — iviry penny ov it ! Why don’t ye 
git to work? Shure, the bit ov land is just run over wid 
weeds, and ye’re too lazy to raise a finger to it.” 

“I come of a family that despise wurk,” said Jim 
loftily. “Shure, don’t I remimber when we had our 
jauntin’ car, and our flitches o’ bacon, and tay and potheen, 
like the best in the land ? But the hand ov oppression has 
robbed us of all. Work, is it, and for the robber and 
tyrant? Not meself, Biddy woman ! ” 

“ Oh ! wisha, goodness help me ! ” exclaimed his wife. 
“I’m well punished for the pride ov me. Shure, me own 
family, if it comes to that, could have baten yours in de- 
scint any day, Jim Maguire. And here I’m chained to an 
idle vagabond who’s niver done a dacint day’s work, and 
expects his wife to kape him in luxuries. Ah ! ’tis a sorry 


KITTY THE RAG. 


04 

bargain I made, and not a minute’s paice or aise whin ye’re 
in the place at all — at all ! ” 

Jim rose with dignity. I know where I am welcome,” 
he said, “ and where a dhrop o’ whisky isn’t begrudged 
me by thim as knows what I ought to be if I had my rights. 
Shure, ’tis meself has aten the bitter bread o’ heart-sickness 
and misery, and the wife ov me bosom only mocks me ! 
Good-night, Kitty agra. Slape well, and be ready for the 
mornin’. ’Tis a sore world for tinder hearts, as maybe 
you’ll find, child.” 

He put on his battered old hat, and went out, leaving 
the two in undisturbed possession of the kitchen. Biddy 
finished the packing in silence, dropping a tear now and 
then on the neat garments. Her heart was sore and heavy, 
and she almost repented of the resolution that had led to 
this sudden alteration in their lives. 

**If I thought ye’d not forget me, child, or despise me,” 
she said at last, turning to look at the pretty figure in its 
neat serge gown, and well -shod feet — the traveling dress of 
the morrow. 

*‘Oh, I won’t forget you!” exclaimed Kitty. I wish 
you wouldn’t cry so, Biddy. After all, a year’s not so 
long, and then I’ll be back again. I wonder what sort of 
place England is. I wish you knew. Will the people be 
like Mr. Marsden at all? ” 

Biddy shook her head. I couldn’t say, darlin’. I’ve 
niver been out ov Ireland meself, and though I’ve seen 
English people often enough, they were so mighty proud 
and stiff, I couldn’t make thim out at all.” 

The child looked thoughtful. The lid of the trunk was 
shut down now, and Biddy turned the key in the lock. 
Then she sat herself down on the old settle, and beckoned 
the child to come over to her. 

A mood of unusual softness prompted Kitty to obey. 

The kindly arms — her only shelter since infancy— closed 
her round. She leant her pretty dusky head against the 
old woman’s shoulder, suffering Biddy to croon over her 
to her heart’s content. Suddenly a soft knock came to 
the door. A head, enveloped in a dull red shawl, looked in. 

** Go mance Dia in sho (God save all here). How’s your- 
self, Biddy Maguire? How’s ivery one ov ye? ’Tis the 
poor Red Hen, and that fataygued as she’s almost ready to 
drop.” 


mfTY THE HAG. 


95 


** Oh, come in, Molly,” cried Biddy, not too eagerly — 
the visitor was singularly unwelcome. “Sit down and rest 
yourself. Mind the box there — it’s gettin’ a bit dark.” 

The little woman sidled in, and took a stool beside the dull 
turf embers. 

“Shure 'tis a great piece ov news to me — that the child’s 
goin’ away,” she said. “ ’Twas Johanna Reardon was afther 
tellin’ me — I couldn’t belave me two ears — but she swore 
'twas thrue — and I just thought I’d ax ye, and give her my 
blessin’ too. But how’s it all come about, Biddy woman ? 
What’s the gintleman interesting himself for about Kitty the 
Rag at all ? ” 

“Shure ye mustn’t be afther callin’ her that any more,” 
said Biddy hastily. “’Tis Kitty Maguire she’s to be — and 
that’s the name she’s goin’ into the grand new life with, 
and good luck may it bring her — that’s what I sez.” 

“And meself sez the same. But shure, Biddy, what’s 
the manin’ ov it ? That’s what ivery one is asking. Why 
should the gintleman at Knockrea ” 

“Who tould you ’twas Mr. Marsden?” asked Biddy 
sharply. “Shure ’tis the crows carry the gossip here, for 
niver a thing but ’tis known, however saycret one is.” 

“I’ll not be lettin’ out how I heard it,” said the little woman. 
“ It was a quare way eno’, but none the less truth in it.” 

“Well, thrue or not, it’s not for me to be talking of 
rayson or no rayson,” said Biddy. “ The child’s goin’ to 
be edicated, and that’s all.” 

“Av course I cud say somethin’,” said the Red Hen, 
looking very wise; “but, shure, I can kape the silent 
tongue in my head av I choose. And doubtless ye know 
best, Biddy Maguire, what to do for the child, though 
settin’ ov her up and placin’ her above her natural station 
isn’t any way ov earnin’ her gratitude, or any one else’s for 
that matther.” 

“ Ah, she’ll do; don’t be botherin’ your head about her,” 
said Biddy petulantly. “Will ye have a cup of tay, Molly, 
and a griddle cake? ye’re mighty welcome to both.” 

“Well, thank ye kindly, Biddy, I don’t mind if I do; 
’tis yourself is the fortunate woman, and has the comforts 
about ye.” 

Biddy brought out a cup and the cakes, and set them before 
her guest. Kitty sat by the fire in sullen silence. She hated 
the Red Hen, and never concealed her animosity. 


96 


KITTY THE RAd. 


** And so the lady’s gone back agin,” said the old woman 
presently, as she drank her tea. Ah, the fine, beautiful 
craythur she’s grown, and rememberin’ us all the same as if 
’twas yesterday. Ah, ’twas sorry I was to see the mark on her, 
the mark ov sorrow, Biddy. There’s throuble in store for 
her; black throuble and sorrowful days.” 

“Whisht ye,” said Biddy quickly. “Don’t be afther 
talkin’ like that. How can ye tell ? ” 

“Tell, is it? Maybe I know more than you think. 
Maybe I can give a guess at your saycrets too, Biddy Ma- 
guire. Ah, there’s eyes and ears about that ye don’t know 
of.” 

Kitty rose suddenly and approached, her face aglow with 
interest. “ Is it about me ye’re meaning? ” she said. “ Is it 
saycrets o’ mine ? Tell me, Molly, do. Do ye know who I 
am at all ? Perhaps my mother was a lady after all ; Biddy 
won’t say. I’m tired of asking.” 

The small ferret eyes of the Red Plen peered curiously into 
the child’s intent face. “A lady, avic ? Maybe you’re 
not so far wrong. In any case your father was a gintle- 
man.” 

Biddy started as if she had been shot. 

“Ah now, hush, woman! What are ye sayin’ at all? 
Putting idays in the child’s head.” 

“ Be quiet, Biddy ; I will hear. A gintleman, ye said. Do 
you know his name? ” 

“ Well, he was too sly-goin’ to let out the rale name ov 
him. ’Twould have bin a shame and a show to the whole 
place besides. But shure, alannah, you’re not far to look. 
Kape your eyes open, and when ye’re a bit oulder and wiser- 
like, shure, you’ve only to remimber who ’twas took such a 
f mighty interest in ye.” 

“For shame, Molly,” interposed Biddy angrily. “ ’Tis 
all lies ye’re tellin’ ; not a word o’ truth in it at all, at 
all ! ” 

Kitty looked from one to the other, her face flushed and 
eager, her bright restless eyes afire with longing. “I shall 
find out for meself,” she said at last. “ I tell ye both straight, 
’tisn’t for nothin’ I’m bein’ made a lady of.” 

“ Shure ’tis the blood spakin’ out,” exclaimed the Red Hen, 
rising and drawing her shawl about her small spare frame. 
“ And look at the face, and the two eyes ov her. Ah ! glory 
be to God, but thim as knows hasn’t far to look. Well good- 


KITTY THE BAG. 


97 


night to ye, and good luck, Kitty, agra ; maybe whin ye come 
back things will have changed a bit. You’re lookin’ over- 
come, Biddy Maguire. ’Tis sorry I am to have disturbed ye. 
There’s a heaviness upon me own self too. Ah, indade, ’tis a 
sorrowful world for some av us.” 

She went out leaving Biddy irate and indignant, and Kitty 
a thousandfold more curious than ever. 

But she could get nothing more from Biddy save rebukes and 
lamentations, and finally took herself off to bed in a fit of 
the sulks, leaving the poor dalin’ woman to her solitary reflec- 
tions by the dying fire. 

The Lord sind me comfort,” she moaned, I’m dazed 
wid terrors, and the sorrow ov it all. Ah, musha ! why did I 
iver lend meself to sich a pace ov work ? And she suspects 
nothing. Shure, I could see that, and me all ov a trimble 
ivery time she passed me. Ah ! the saints presarve us, but me 
heart misgives me intirely.” 

Slie shuddered and drew near the hearth, and sat gazing 
into the dull embers, while great hot tears gathered in her 
eyes and rolled down her rough face. 

Her thoughts flew back to a strange scene — a promise wrung 
from compassion — as well as bribed by heavy stress of poverty 
— a secret at first light and insignificant, now growing heavier 
and darker as time passed on. How strange and tortuous the 
path looked ; how impossible it was to follow its windings, or 
guess at its goal. 

And I love her so, as if ’twas me own flesh and blood she 
was,” she moaned. “Ah, indade, ’tis the sorrowful wurrld, 
and Father Dillon gone too, and not a sowl I dare spake to. 
And me boy, the pride ov me heart, far over the says, or under 
thim. Shure, ’tis the heavy punishment I’ve had to bear for 
my pride in him ; and sometimes I fear I’ll niver agin be wel- 
comin’ him back to the ould hearth — niver agin, Eugene, 
machree, niver agin.” 

Darker and darker grew the night. The splash of rain fell 
on the thatched roof. A moaning wind crept softly round the 
house, sighing like an uneasy ghost. And still she sat on in 
the old rickety chair, glancing back through the shadowy years 
into the midst of past events. 

And through all she felt the dull pain of a truth her heart 
refused to acknowledge, pressing stubbornly upon her brood- 
ing fancies. 

Dearly as she loved this waif, bravely as she had struggled 

7 


98 


KITTY THE EAQ. 


for her, no answering love had ever been really her reward. 
Selfish, passionate, heedless as is all youth, this child, born of 
youth’s selfish headstrong passion, was even more selfish, more 
callous, than childhood often seems. 

Her life was self-centred and egotistic. This desire for a 
different station, another position, was it only natural ambition 
or the result of inherited pride ? 

The wind, carrying on careless wings the blossom of the 
orchard, the seed of the garden, is not more heedless of results 
than the fierce breath of passing passion, whose whole world 
of desire embraces but the immediate moment, and foresees no 
results, and heeds no consequences. 


kitty tbk bag. 


CHAPTER XV. 

It is not possible to pass from idle days of vagabondage to 
social restrictions and the obligations of civilized life without 
strife and heart-burning and rebellion. 

Kitty Maguire, as she was now called, emerged from the 
birth-throes of discipline changed — tutored as to dress, man- 
ner, and way of speaking, but still untamed at heart. The 
first year of her school life had done wonders for her outward 
appearance. She was no longer rough, wild, unkempt. Her 
massive curls had the gloss and sheen of the wood-berry, her 
dress was scrupulously neat and tastefully simple. Her voice 
knew the charm of modulation — though anger or impatience 
still awoke a wild note of defiance, and that touch of the 
“ brogue ” the Irish voice never quite loses. 

The two maiden ladies to whose care she had been entrusted 
had found her a somewhat onerous charge. The other girls, 
three in number, had at first made a pet or a butt of her al- 
ternately ; but a few outbursts of Kitty's temper and one or two 
specimens of Kitty’s tongue had soon convinced them she was 
best left unmolested. 

The imitative faculty was strong enough in the child to en- 
able her to copy their manners and appearance very accurately, 
and that curious process of levelling” which the young can 
alone bestow upon the young was no bad form of discipline for 
one so self-willed and headstrong. 

The year had drifted by, and the summer vacation was to be 
spent in Ireland. A letter from Biddy had informed her of 
the arrangements for her journey, and that she would herself 
meet her at Kingstown. An escort had been found to 
Holyhead, when she was to be put in charge of the stewardess. 

The night was so fine and warm that many of the passengers 
remained on deck, and the dreaded Channel was like a mill 
pond. Kitty chose to do the same. Her composure and self- 
assertiveness made most people take her to be much older than 
she was. She found herself a comfortable corner, and seated 
herself on the rug with which she had been provided. Her 
quick roving eyes took note of the figures passing to and fro in 
the clear moonlight. Among them she noted two priests — one 


100 


KITTY THE RAG. 


young with a pale ascetic-looking face, the other older and 
more robust-looking, with keen blue eyes and a good-humored 
smile. 

They had passed her several times. At last the elder man 
went downstairs, but the younger still kept up his monotonous 
walk, pausing now and then to look over the steamer’s side or 
up at the clear blue of the star-studded sky. Some restless 
movement of the little bundle huddled up in the corner at last 
attracted him. He looked down and saw the glowing eyes 
and brilliant face of Kitty. 

For a moment he stood quite still, watching her. Then 
he came a step or two nearer. 

Are you all alone, my child ? ” he said. 

His voice had the faint accent and the melancholy sweet- 
ness associated in her mind with the country to which she was 
going. She answered him without that affectation of the Eng- 
lish tongue she had done her best to adopt. 

“Yes, your reverence.” 

“ Ah ! ” he said, “ so you are Irish, little one ? ” 

His voice was tremulous and broken as if by some agitating 
memory. 

“I have been away,” he went on, “ so many — many years. 
It does my heart good to hear the old tongue again. Tell me 
your name and where you live.” 

“Kitty Maguire’s my name,” said the child, “and I am 
going back to Kerry. I’ve been to school in England. These 
are my holidays.” 

He seemed to start slightly. “Maguire?” he said, “are 
you from Kerry ? Do your parents live there ? ” 

“No,” she said brusquely. “They’re dead. I live with 
Biddy and her husband. Do you know Kerry ? We live in a 
village near Knockrea.” 

“I — I have heard of it,” he said evasively. “Is Biddy 
Maguire any relation to you then ? ” 

The child looked amazed. “ I don’t know the rights of 
it,” she said shortly. “I’ve lived with her ever since I can 
remember. But it’s Mr. Marsden of Knockrea who is paying 
for my schooling.” 

The young man said nothing. His face looked strangely 
white under the moonrays — his eyes seemed searching hers in 
an eager piercing scrutiny that almost frightened her. 

“ Why do you look at me so ? ” she asked. “ Do you know 
me?” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


101 


No,” he said abruptly. ** Only you remind me of some 
one I used to know — long, long ago.” 

Kitty was silent for a moment. Then she said abruptly : 
“Do you like being a priest? You’re very young, aren’t 
you ? ” 

“ I have only been lately ordained,” he said. “lam going 
to join an order in Limerick.” 

“ I should think it was horrid,” said the child. “Isn’t it 
very hard to be always good ? ’ ’ 

“ Hard ? ” — he bit his lip — “ of course it is hard,” he said, 
“ and no one is good always, child. The flesh and the spirit 
are ever at warfare. As for liking the office — that is not the 
way to regard it. God calls us, we must obey. In fulfilling 
His will and doing His work we find our highest happiness.” 

“Yes,” she said with an elfish smile, “that is what they all 
say. All the same, you don’t look happy, any of you.” 

“ There is a happiness in doing one’s duty,” he said rebuk- 
ingly. “ Have you never learned that yet, Kitty ? ” 

“No,” she said. “I hate being good; and doing one’s 
duty seems only to mean doing everything you don’t want to 
do, and that other people make you.” 

He looked at the mutinous face somewhat sadly. “Have 
you had no religious instruction yet ? ” he asked. 

“Plenty. More than I want, or can understand. I was a 
Catholic in Ireland, and I’m a Protestant in England, and not 
a bit better do I feel for either.” ^ 

“Hush, hush!” he said. “That is very wrong. You 
should not forsake the true faith. In it alone are rest and 
peace, and promise of eternal life.” 

“ I should not mind living for ever if I could live in this 
world,” was the audacious answer. “But up there — so far 
away, where one would always have to be good — Oh ! I hope 
it won’t be for ever.” 

“Would you rather live in eternal torment?” asked the 
young priest sternly. “ It seems to me you are half a heretic 
already.” 

The child folded her hands tightly round her knees, and 
fixed her eager gaze upon his face. 

“ Tell me this,” she said. “ Why does one sort of Church 
say one thing and one another? Why does a priest teach one 
way to heaven, and a clergyman, as they call him, another? 
Who is to know who is right, and why should we be punished 
if we believe the wrong one? ” 


102 


KITTY THE BAG. 


“There is only one right,” he answered. “Those who 
have the care of you should have instructed you better. Who 
is the parish priest at Knockrea ? ” 

“Father Egan,” she said, “but I hated him. He was 
cruel, and he neglected the poor, and was for ever makin’ up 
to the gentry, and he never stood up for the rights of the peo- 
ple — so Jim said. He never troubled about us, or what we 
learnt at the schools, and as for the chapel, why no one can 
understand what they say there at all ! ” 

The young priest looked at her regretfully. “ I wish I had 
the teaching of you,” he said. “ Not that I know much my- 
self yet, with all the study. But I feel so sure — so sure that 
we are right — and the hope is so blest, the reward so great, 
and the world so evil, so full of temptation, sin, vileness.” 

He drew a long breath. His eyes were on the shining 
heavens. He seemed to forget he was speaking only to a child. 
He had in him the faith and strength of purpose of which 
martyrs are made. The old, ill-fated faith of Rome was to 
him the embodiment of all things noble and divine. Sin — 
long repented of — but still lying like a festering sore upon 
memory — had driven him to the Church. The bloody scourge, 
the daily penance, were things well known to Father Consi- 
dine. To purify the soul he had spared no torture or self-sac- 
rifice to the body. His zeal was almost too fervent, and, com- 
bined with his talents and proficiency, promised him a ripe 
heritage of earthly as well as heavenly rewards in time to 
come. He was barely twenty-six, and already his order had 
begun to speak of him with reverence and wonder. 

As he stood there now in the summer starlight — his face il- 
lumined with the fervor of his thoughts — the child felt a sud- 
den sense of awe and wonder steal over her. 

“ I should like you to teach me,” she said. “ You are very 
different from Father Egan, or Mr. Kilmayne.” 

His earnest eyes fell on her again. He was searching his 
mind for some word — some counsel that would bear fruit in 
the future — that, falling on this strange soil, might yet blossom 
into fruit of promise. 

“Child,” he said at last, “let me tell you a story. Per- 
haps we have met to-night for a purpose. God’s ways are 
strange, and man may not question them. Enough for us that 
He has deigned to reveal the mysteries of faith through His 
Church. You are too young to understand, you are not too 
young to accept. The heart of man is deceitful \ it is full of 


KITTY THE RAG. 


103 


wickedness. I tell you so, as others must have told you. For 
hundreds of years the evil in us has had to fight with the good 
revealed to us. This world is only a battle ground, and you 
speak of living in it for ever ! For ever ! The thought is 
hideous. But you speak as a child only can speak, knowing 
nothing of life, of sorrow, of suffering.” 

He paused and drew his hand across his brow, damp with 
the dew of earnestness. I wish I could make you under- 
stand,” he said. “ Listen. There was once a child like your- 
self — careless, self-satisfied, headstrong. To him life said, as 
it says to you: ‘Enjoy — be happy.’ He also would have 
wished the life of this world might last for ever — it was his 
paradise. Then, suddenly, without warning, there came to 
him a subtle temptation. It looked so beautiful, this sin, that 
he would not call it sin : he would not try to resist it, and he 
fell. Oh ! the horror, the shame, the agony of the fall — who 
can tell but his own soul and the blessed Christ who saw its 
sufferings? And then came a dark and terrible time — no 
peace, no help anywhere. And then, at last, out of the dark- 
ness a voice — out of the terrors a helping hand — and bruised 
and broken, and heart-sore and penitent, he threw himself at 
the foot of the Cross, and help came to him, and peace and 
hope of pardon ; and he lives on to thank God every hour of 
life that he was saved by His blessed mercy.” 

The child’s eyes had never left his face. The eloquence 
and passion of his words had irradiated it with a lofty beauty 
beyond its natural charm of expression, or the perfectly cut 
features. As a rule the priests she had known were old men, 
with grizzled hair, flabby cheeks, wrinkled brows. This 
young enthusiast, with his melancholy eyes and nervous, mo- 
bile lips, was more than ever attractive by force of contrast. 

She drew a deep breath. “Was the boy yourself ? ” she 
asked. 

He started, and crossed himself hastily. “No matter,” 
he said. “I have told you as a warning. Someday, when 
you are older and have learnt the power of beauty, and the 
charm of sex, perhaps you will also learn the meaning of 
temptation. I would you might remember my words. No 
joy, no promised happiness, is ever worth a sin to gain it. It 
withers at your touch ; it lies flowerless and dead upon your 
lips ; it leaves a haunting remorse. The gifts of earth are not 
worth the barter of the soul’s peace, for they perish as the body 
perishes ; but the soul lives on for ever, and ever, and ever ! ” 


104 


KITTY THE BAG. 


His lips quivered. He bent his head as if in prayer. She 
watched him fascinated and awe-struck. The words were not 
intelligible yet. The freaks and petulance, and tempers and 
rebellion of childhood seemed to her too natural to deserve so 
harsh a name as sin. But the tone and look of the speaker 
made a deep impression on her mind. 

As he turned abruptly away, she called to him almost en- 
treatingly. 

“ Oh, I am sure I am wicked," she said. I can’t help it. 
I seem as if I must be. Biddy was so good to me, and I 
never did anything but plague her. I wanted to be a lady and 
grand, and not poor and hard-working like herself, and I made 
her get the money to send me away. Is all this wrong? 
Ought I to live with her and try to please her, because she was 
good to me when I had no one in the world to take care of 
me? ’’ 

He stopped, and stood looking down at the earnest face, 
flushed and eager, and curiously appealing in this moment of 
awakened feeling. Tell me your history," he said; “ then 
I will tell you your duty." 

She stammered out a confused account of that hapless in- 
fancy, in which what she had heard and what she believed 
were strangely mingled. 

The priest’s face grew pale to the lips as he listened. 

“You say Mr. Marsden of Knockrea has done all this for 
you ? " he asked faintly. 

“Yes, sir. Biddy went to him straight one evening when 
I’d been plaguing her to have me sent to a proper school, and 
he promised he’d give her the money ; and so he did. And 
he sent for me and told me I was to be a good girl, and try my 
best to learn and fit myself for a better position, and that’s what 
I mean to do. Indeed, your reverence, I couldn’t content my- 
self with a cabin, and the hard life, and Jim’s drunken ways." 

“ Jim ! ’’ he said abruptly. “Jim Maguire? ’’ 

“ Yes, your reverence. Do you know him ? ’’ 

He was silent. His face had suddenly grown set and cold. 
That mask to all feeling which priesthood and monkhood so 
soon teach, seemed to alter it to rigid impassivity. 

“The ways of God are strange," he said hoarsely. “ Who 
shall fathom their meaning ? I — I once knew such a man. 
He was not a good character — and his wife had much to put 
up with. She was a hard-working, and industrious creature, 
and good and loving too." 


KITTY THE RAG. 


105 


Ah, that’s just like Biddy,” said the child. ‘‘ She was 
always kind-hearted, and never a cross word to me, and that 
patient with Jim, even though she did lash out a bit with her 
tongue now and then. Did you really ever know her? She’ll 
be coming to meet me when we get to Kenmare. Maybe 
you’ll like to speak to her.” 

He made a hurried gesture. “ No, child — no — it — it must 
be a mistake. The name is common enough. What were we 
talking of? — your history. Yes, your duty is to the woman 
who has befriended and cared for you. No ambition of your 
own should interfere with it. Young as you are, you are called 
upon to decide. Your whole future may depend on it.” 

“Then if — if after the eight years’ schooling Mr. Marsden 
has promised — Biddy wants me back ” 

“ It will be your duty to go back.” 

“ Oh, I can’t — I can’t,” cried Kitty passionately. “ It 
would be hateful. I don’t want to be poor. I feel I ought to 
be something better. I told you it was in me — like a hunger 
that won’t be satisfied.” 

“ The very fact of its seeming so hard, so impossible, is the 
surest sign that it is duty,” answered the young priest. “The 
right path is always strewn with thorns — it is the evil one that 
lies turf-covered and rose-bordered before our longing eyes.” 

She was silent for a moment. The splash of the paddle 
wheels — the sound of the sea — fell on her ears with strange 
distinctness. All her life henceforth that sound would be as- 
sociated with this moment — and this man. 

“ I couldn’t do it,” she said. “ I love Biddy — but I hate 
that life. I want to ” 

He made a sudden gesture. 

“I know that want,” he said: “that restless craving for 
something better, easier, sensuous, and self-satisfying. You 
have the woman soul. Pray heaven it may not lead you into 
error, as it has led so many.” 

He turned away then, leaving her sitting on her pile of rugs 
— her moody eyes gazing straight ahead at the shining waters, 
her heart aflame with longing, and wonder, and discontent. 

“I can’t do it,” she muttered. “I’d never be happy. 
He’s only a priest — what does he know? I’ve set my heart 
on being a lady, and I mean to be one.” 


106 


KITTY THE BAG. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Biddy greeted the child with mingled exclamations of rap- 
ture and wonderment. She was so grown, so altered, so beau- 
tiful ! 

As she stood clasping her in her arms, pouring forth ejacu- 
lations and tears alternately, the two priests passed them. 
The younger one had drawn his felt hat low down over his 
brow. His coat touched her. She did not observe him. 

Human instinct is after all a dulled and half-dim sense 
which the brute creation puts to shame. A prayer is granted 
— and lo ! we know it not, because the answer comes in some 
unexpected way, or at some inopportune moment. 

As the long weary journey went on, Kitty grew sullen and 
discontented. Everything grated on her ; the uncomfortable 
seats, the dirty, ill-dressed people, the coarse brogue, the un- 
ceasing clatter of tongues, and the perpetual gossip about 
other people’s affairs. 

The stifling heat of the July day was giving way to the 
coolness of eventide — the sun was setting behind the moun- 
tains, — the fields were ripening to harvest. Lovely peeps of 
valley and river and wood flashed by as the coach sped on, but 
the discontent in the child’s soul never lessened. She brought 
no gladness of heart back to her native land — only dark and 
sordid memories. 

Biddy’s cabin, and her old miserable sleeping loft, came 
back to her vision, and when they reached the terminus she 
relapsed into sullen silence, and not even the bargaining for an 
outside car roused her. 

Biddy looked at her with sorrow, and with apprehension. 
So short a time — so great a change. With all her pride and 
gladness her heart grew heavy, and the tender words ceased 
to flow from her lips, and she sat in melancholy grandeur be- 
side the child for whom she had made so many sacrifices. 

The village was all astir with curiosity at Kitty’s return. 
Cries of welcome greeted them as the car drew up at the well- 
known cottage. Jim — unshaven, tattered, as of old— was 
again leaning over the railings; his pipe in his mouth ; his at- 


KITTY THE RAG. 


107 


titude and appearance still a consistent protest against the op- 
pressor. 

Within the little kitchen all was bright and cheerful. The 
table was spread with good things ; the kettle sang above the 
blazing sticks. Window and door were open to the twilight 
glow. Everything was clean and neat as hands could make 
it. 

Yet to Kitty’s eyes, accustomed to well-furnished rooms, 
large and airy accommodation, a well-appointed table, well- 
served meals — all these homely preparations looked common 
and poverty-stricken. 

She did not say so ; but her face expressed no pleasure, and 
her eyes never lost their sullen glow of discontent. 

Yet she was hungry and tired enough to enjoy the herrings 
and potatoes, the tea and griddle cakes which Biddy had pro- 
vided, and enlivened the meal by her accounts of England 
and school life, and the difference of speech and manners be- 
tween the two countries. 

Biddy listened to her as to an oracle. 

It seemed wonderful to her simple soul that the wild, un- 
tutored, ignorant waif of a year ago could have changed into 
this disciplined, correctly-speaking girl — whose very way of 
eating and drinking was a protest against her surroundings. 

“ Shure ’twas in the blood — any one could see that now,” 
she said to herself, half-resentful and half-proud of a superior- 
ity she could not approach, and that blended past memories 
with present pain. 

There was something bold — resolute — unscrupulous about 
the child. One f^lt instinctively that she had set herself an 
object in life, and that she meant to accomplish it without re- 
gard to feelings she might wound — or obstacles she might en- 
counter. 

Intelligence sometimes arms itself instinctively against un- 
foreseen dangers, and Kitty’s mental attitude at present was 
that of uplifted hand and clenched fists. 

Am I to go and see Mr. Marsden, Biddy?” she asked as 
she finished her tea. 

<^Yes, darlin’, ye are, but not till to-morrow evening. 
Shure, ’tis himself will be surprised when he sets eyes on ye — 
so grown — and the manners and the lamin’ ov ye.” 

Kitty’s scarlet underlip grew scornful. ‘‘I wish you could 
see the other girls,” she said. “ You wouldn’t think much of 
me beside Una Harrison — or Mabel Deane,” 


108 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Troth, darlin’, I’m not botherin’ me head about thim at 
all. It’s me own gurl is enough for me.” 

Biddy’s fond eyes grew dim once more. She rose and 
wiped a tear away with her apron as she bustled to and fro — 
putting away the fragments of the meal, and washing up the 
cups and plates in an old tin bowl. 

Jim sauntered out, pipe in hand, and Kitty followed him, 
and stood bareheaded by the rickety wooden gate, looking 
down the familiar street. 

She thought of the night little more than a year ago, when 
she had stood by that same gate and gazed down that same 
street at the carriage bearing the proud, beautiful woman to 
Knockrea House. 

How that sight had filled her young soul with envy and dis- 
content ! How much had happened since ! 

It seemed strange to look back, and handle, as it were, the 
first tiny wedge that was to open the close-barred door of the 
future. 

This year had but heightened her ambitions, and confirmed 
her resolves. Another and yet another must pass and bear her 
onward on their purposeful wings higher and further from here 
— this spot that had grown so hateful, that seemed to hold for 
her only the humiliating picture of Kitty the Rag. 


This same year had added harder lines to Philip Marsden’s 
face, a touch or two of grey to his hair, an additional crow’s 
foot about his eyes, in which a sombre purpose ever brooded. 

He sat at his solitary dinner-table, the windows open to the 
warm July night. He was absorbed in thought, and the frown 
on his brow seemed to denote the subject was not pleasant. 

Suddenly a noise at the window made him look up. Stand- 
ing there, and gazing at him unabashed and undismayed, was 
the child Kitty. For a moment he did not recognize her. 
She had grown — she was neatly and simply dressed. Face, 
figure, expression, were all altered from what he had known a 
year ago. 

The two looked at each other silently. Then he half rose 
from his chair. 

'‘Why, what brings you here?” he asked. "I said to- 
morrow, did I not? ” 

"Yes,” she answered, " but I wanted to see you to-night.” 


KITTY TSB RAG, 


109 


Oh, come in then,” he said readily. “Let me see what 
discipline has done for you.” 

She entered and walked up to the table. His eyes noted 
the grace and ease of her movements, the beauty of the flower- 
like face, the wonderful change that this one year had wrought 
in her. 

“ There is a lurking devil in those eyes,” he said to himself. 
“ She will do. I am sure of that.” 

Aloud, he bade her bring a chair to the table, and take any 
of the fruits that pleased her from the Crown Derby dessert 
dishes. Then he poured her out a glass of wine, and leant 
back watching her more intently than ever. 

She meanwhile helped herself to a peach, and began to peel 
it in quite orthodox fashion. He noted how white her hands 
had become, and how excellent was their shape. 

“ And now may I ask why you have come here to-night? ” 
he said at last. “ I can hardly suppose you were so very anx- 
ious to see me as your visit proclaims.” 

“ I thought I would like to tell you about all I’ve been do- 
ing,” she said. “It was very hard work, and I didn’t like 
it; and I didn’t like England or the people. But I’m getting 
used to them now, and I’ve learnt a lot.” 

“ Were you glad to come home? ” he asked. 

<<No — at least I was glad to see Biddy; but I don’t like 
living in that little hole of a cottage, and Jim is so dirty, and 
everything is so common.” 

“ Ah ! ” he said, “ you’ve learnt your lesson quickly. The 
first thing civilization teaches us is discontent with all that has 
gone before. It makes us ashamed of Nature, and then offers 
us aprons of fig leaves ! ” 

She glanced at him, and then at the beautiful room. “I 
wish,” she said, “ you would let me stay here.” 

He put down his glass and stared at her. 

“ That is rather a cool request,” he said. “ What has be- 
come of your affection for Biddy? ” 

“ Oh ! that has nothing to do with it,” she said. “ I love 
her as much as ever, but I don’t like living there now. Why, 
we haven’t knives and forks enough, and no tablecloth. Oh ! 
it’s hateful. I never thought it was so bad till I came back to 
it.” 

Philip Marsden leant back in his chair and laughed. “ Am- 
bition, caprice, vanity,” he said slowly. “How speedily 
these virtues can be grafted on the stem of selfishness. The 


no 


klTTY THE EAG. 


fastidiousness that claims table napery as a right may degener- 
ate into the recklessness that sells itself for a coronet. There 
is something delightfully uncertain in the feminine character. 
It is like a brand that ignites tragedies — a match thrown hap- 
hazard — to expire or inflame.” 

The child looked at him — her sombre eyes dark with won- 
der. She did not half comprehend his meaning, but she 
wanted a direct answer to her request. 

May I come here? ” she repeated ; then added, as if urg- 
ing a reason for so strange a demand, “ I’ve heard people say 
you’re my father, you know.” 

<< What ! ” he cried, starting up in his chair, his face ablaze, 
and the veins in his forehead standing out like whipcord. 

She looked at him without any sort of fear. 

** Yes, it’s quite true — they say it. Of course, I don’t know. 
But why did you trouble your head about me if I wasn’t some- 
thing more than the other children of the village? ” 

The color gradually left his face. 

<‘So that is what you’ve heard — that is what you think ! ” 
he exclaimed. Did Biddy tell you this — this lie ? ” 

“ Is it a lie? ” she asked coolly. Oh, no. Biddy never 
said so. It was the neighbors — but maybe it’s only jealous 
they are.” 

His eyes were on his plate. He was following out a train 
of thought in his own mind. 

The motives of an action often come back to us as a surprise 
when clad in the garb our friends and neighbors choose to fit 
them with. As his indignation cooled he began to ask him- 
self whether this attributed motive was not a better cloak for 
his designs than his own. At all events the subject would bear 
thinking out. 

He looked up at the child at last, and gave way to a burst 
of caustic laughter. Well, Kitty,” he said, ‘‘ if your friends 
are bent on inventing a relationship between us, they will do 
it whatever we say. Evidently your instincts are all against 
your present position in life. As you have done so much 
credit, in so short a time, to my charity, it would be hard to 
send you back to the old, uncongenial surroundings. Go 
home now, and tell Biddy you are to spend your holidays 
here, but that she is welcome to as much of your society as 
you choose to give her.” 

The child sprang to her feet, her face radiant with delight. 


mTTT TSJE HAG. 


Ill 


**0h, do you really mean it? How kind of you! I’ll 
promise to behave myself.” 

She glanced around at the hundred and one things of 
beauty in the beautiful room. She clasped her hands in 
ecstasy. 

“Shure, ’tis just like a fairy tale!” she exclaimed, going 
back to the old expressions with the natural impulse that had 
not yet been killed out in the forcing house of culture. 

Philip Marsden laughed again. Even fairy tales may have 
unpleasant endings, he remembered. 


112 


KITTY THE BAQ, 


CHAPTER XVII. 

There is nothing at once so innocent and so cruel as the 
selfishness of childhood. It cannot understand the sacrifices 
made for it ; it cannot gauge the depth of love lavished upon 
it. Daily and hourly the little careless hand stabs the heart 
that worships it ; the whims and caprices and fickleness of a 
child’s changeful affections are so many thorns scattered be- 
fore the faithful feet that pursue its careless steps. 

Heart-smitten by its baffling inconsistencies, we watch the 
character develop — its moods and tempers, like vagrant airs 
blown by unknown winds over a garden — wooing spices and 
scents to scatter them broadcast over wood and mead, oyer 
those who desire them not, as over those who crave their 
fragrance. 

Even its love is but a gusty tenderness, passing as quickly 
as it comes. 

If the poor Dalin’ Woman could have expressed her own 
feelings, they would have flowed forth in some such words as 
these, the night that Kitty returned in triumph to tell her she 
would spend her holidays at Knockrea House. 

At first she was too astounded to speak at all. The pain at 
her heart held her numbed and silent, and then, when natural 
reproach broke forth, she felt that it was like speaking an un- 
known language. 

Kitty did not understand her own cruelty. She could see 
nothing ungrateful in her desertion. She was quite incapable 
of understanding the longings and desires of this past year, 
even as she could not comprehend the sense of loneliness and 
despair which her desertion must inflict on Biddy. 

Every little preparation for her comfort — all the pride and 
thoughtfulness that had been lavished on the humble home 
made ready for her — were alike ignored by one whose eyes 
were dazzled by the splendors of the great house, and whose 
childish soul loathed the humble cottage that had been her 
only shelter until a year ago. 

She was almost angry because Biddy was not as excited and 
pleased as herself. With childhood’s cruel candor she told 


KITTY THE BAG. 


113 


her that she could not have lived a month in the cottage — with 
its close smells, its earthern floor, and its poor sticks of furni- 
ture — and Biddy listened with an aching heart, and eyes in 
which the hot smart of tears was bravely checked. 

All the same, it seemed to her that she had tasted the very 
bitterness of death in that moment — that a grave of division 
yawned between her and the child whom she had nursed and 
nurtured and cared for, in all her years of helplessness. 

Then pride came to her aid and helped her to hide the 
wound inflicted so heedlessly. 

‘‘I didn’t think that ye’d so soon larn your lesson, Kitty 
agra,” she-said. “ I didn’t think that ye’d so soon larn to be 
a lady — as ye call it. But if Mr. Marsden wishes for your 
company it’s not for the likes o’ me to be interferin’. It’s a 
poor sort o’ holiday that I’ll be havin’, darlin’ ; but ye’re wise 
to go where ye’ll be happiest. Ye’re not the first to forsake a 
poor home for a fine house, and think ye’re gettin’ the best o’ 
the bargain.” 

Kitty was silent. Something in the voice struck even to her 
selfish little heart, and smote her with momentary self-reproach 
at her desertion. But the love and adoration Biddy had so 
long lavished upon her had served in a great measure to foster 
her natural vanity and wilfulness. Besides, this one year had 
so opened her eyes ! 

She had been taught the manners of a lady. She had been 
well fed, well dressed, and waited on. She had heard other 
children’s views and opinions of social life and advantages. 
Above all she had learnt to despise poverty. 

Where she got her pride and aptness from was hard to say. 
But they were inherited possessions, and she would have to 
suffer for them as the years rolled on. 

And unfortunately for her it was not the right sort of pride— 
not the pride that knows neither envy nor ambition ; that sees 
in poverty no shame, and in work no hardship. At one stride 
her desires had leapt the barrier that separated poverty from 
wealth, and from coveting the position she had envied, had 
sprung the determination to win one like it. 

She sat by Biddy’s side while the night drew on and the 
stars shone over the quiet village street. She poured out to 
the faithful ears of her first protector all her desires and ambi- 
tions, and once again tried to win from her the truth of her 
own history. 

But Biddy’s lips were sealed, and she asked in vain, 

8 


114 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Most early youth is happy, because the present is sufficient 
for it. But Kitty dwelt ever on the future. To her it was an 
empire that she might possibly inherit — a land of glorious 
possibilities. For sake of it she allowed herself to despise her 
obscure and safe position — the faithful love that had counted 
no cost in her service. She forgot, too, that she was a mother- 
less, nameless outcast, fed and clothed and protected by a 
supercilious charity — the whim of a chance caprice. 

She preferred to think she had a claim upon the protection, 
a right to the caprice. Her mind was full of irrepressible as- 
pirations — intense longings, cravings that are as poison to any 
woman’s soul which once they enter. 

As, there are dreams that lift the soul above all mean and 
sordid things of earth, so there are others that are merely the 
highway to sin. In some dim fashion Biddy knew this, and 
on her spirit fell the weight of a bitter foreboding. 

That first parting had been hard to bear, but the bitterness 
of this new separation lay in her own consciousness of the 
change it foretold. To the child it meant only beatitude — to 
her it meant the pain of desertion and the sense of a careless 
ingratitude. That sense of benefits forgot,” of love lavished 
in vain, that is at once the sharpest and cruellest heritage of 
earthly love, touched her for the first time in her life, as she 
listened to the child’s ceaseless chatter, and asked herself how 
it was all to end. 

For once sleep refused her the boon of forgetfulness. For 
once she lay awake longing for, yet dreading the daylight. 
For once she felt the secret she had carried so long was a 
burden hateful and intolerable. But when the day did break, 
and the old cares and the old duties demanded her attention, 
she once more masked herself in resigned patience, and stoic- 
ally drove back her tears, and stifled her regrets. 

The child departed full of glee and satisfaction, giving no 
backward glance to the home that had so long been her 
shelter, or the patient figure shading its eyes from the sunlight 
as it stood in the doorway. 

She nodded carelessly to the children who spoke to her — or 
the women who came out with eager questions and that insati- 
able curiosity of the Irish to know the why and wherefore of 
their neighbors’ doings. But they learnt little from Kitty. 
That little, however, was enough to set gossip going afresh, 
and afford fresh reasons for the mysterious interest taken in the 
child by one so negligent and indifferent as Philip Marsden, 


KITTY THE BAG. 


115 


Meantime Kitty arrived at the house, and was ushered up- 
stairs to the room prepared for her, and informed that Mr. 
Marsden would be in to luncheon at two o’clock and would 
expect her then in the dining-room. 

It was only twelve now, so she had two hours to get through 
before the ordeal. 

She amused herself by an examination of her bedroom. It 
was a fair-sized, plainly furnished room. A bookshelf con- 
taining fairy tales and Maria Edgeworth’s stories for the young 
was hung near the window, and a writing-table furnished with 
ink and writing-paper stood beneath. She wondered if she 
would be expected to do lessons ; and then satisfied with her 
discoveries she went downstairs, and peeped curiously into the 
great drawing-room and the library before going out on the 
terrace. 

There she stood, bathed in the golden sunlight, drinking in 
beauty and fragrance in gasps of ecstasy. 

It seemed like a dream that she should be here : that her 
audacious request should have been so readily granted. All 
fear of the stern and cynical owner of Knockrea had left her. 
She was firmly convinced in her own mind that she had some 
claim upon him — that she would be protected, sheltered, cared 
for, and placed in a position to realize her ambitions. 

Childhood accepts even the improbable without question, 
and Kitty, as she walked along over close-shaven emerald 
lawns, and under the cool shading of the trees, was saying in 
her heart, ** I, too, may be rich some day,” and believed what 
she wished to believe. 

Her mind was fanciful and barbaric, and outward splendor 
appealed to it. Her feminine instinct told her she had beauty, 
and already she had learnt something of its power — where men 
were concerned. 

The passionate propulsions of her nature drew her irresist- 
ibly on toward luxury, wealth, show and glitter. For sake 
of them all softer and more generous emotions were thrust 
back and stifled. 

Before she had spent a week at Knockrea House she was 
as much at home in it as if all her life had been spent there. 

To Philip Marsden she was at once a study and a revelation. 
Her aptitude and quickness amazed him — her conceit and am- 
bition amused. He made no attempt to correct or check her. 
She was allowed to do what she pleased, and he studied and 
analyzed her as if she were some curious product of Nature. 


116 


KITTY THE BAG. 


At the end of a week Biddy came to see her. She was 
more astonished than ever at the change in the child — the ease 
with which she had accommodated herself to her new sur- 
roundings. But her heart sank within her as she received the 
careless greeting, and marked the indifference as to her doings 
or her welfare which every word betrayed. 

Kitty was full of herself — of the comforts and luxuries of 
her new life, which had now become second nature — of the 
new clothes Mr. Marsden had ordered for her to wear — of the 
toys and books he had given her — the pony she was learning 
to ride — the beautiful Irish setter which had usurped in her 
fickle affections the place of poor, half-blind Tim. 

Biddy listened with an aching heart. 

The mischief was done now, she felt ; it could never be un- 
done. Whatever Mr. Marsden’s motives, he had effectually 
changed the whole mental attitude and nature of the child to- 
ward herself. Kitty could never again be content with a poor 
home — a hard-working life — the bread of toil — the simple of- 
ferings of affection. 

There was no influence about her great enough to counter- 
act the ill-advised whim that had drawn her into a whirlpool 
of vain and selfish pleasures — excitement — desires. Whether 
as a test or a temptation, Philip Marsden’s experiment was a 
cruel one. It might send out the object of it to face an ordeal 
no feminine thing is strong enough to face alone. It might be 
fostering the natural audacity of ignorance, in order to deal a 
blow at once sharp and sudden at the unprepared and unex- 
pectant head now raised in proud defencelessness. 

Biddy looked on with a kind of terror. She could not have 
said what she feared, but she did fear — something. 

As she left the great house and went back to her lonely cot- 
tage, she knew that her child had been taken from her for 
ever — that never again would she returrr to humble poverty 
and security. Her choice had been made — and she must 
abide by it now. 

To the old woman herself, used to the careless freedom of a 
roving life — loving wandering as any gipsy might love it for 
sake of its change of scene, and motion, and unrest — it seemed 
unnatural that the child should have voluntarily chosen to cage 
herself, to suffer her wings to be clipped, and her freedom de- 
stroyed. 

She could not understand the mystery of hereditary instincts 
— nor why a child reared as Kitty had been reared should pine 


KITTY THE BAG. 


117 


for wealth and power and splendor. She could only gaze at 
the future with blank despair, and wonder what womanhood 
would bring ; only sit by the dim turf fire in the long lonely 
nights, and stare with prophetic eyes at the visions it seemed 
to show her, while the creature she had loved so passionately 
drifted farther and farther away from her on the sea of a new 
life. 

She never blamed the child. She loved her none the less 
for all the pain she had caused her — the ingratitude with 
which she had rewarded her faithful heart. To lose her — to 
let her go to others — was torture well -nigh unbearable, but she 
came of a race inured to sorrow — made strong in the fires of 
endurance. 

She wept alone — counted her beads in the firelight — and 
prayed for heaven’s choicest blessings on the fickle heart that 
had forsaken her ! 


118 


KITTY THE BAG. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

YEAR — a whole long year,” exclaimed Lady Ellings- 
worth, holding her friend’s hands in both her own, and gazing 
fondly at the beautiful eyes giving such tender greeting. 
began to think you would never come.” 

“ But I have at last,” said Judith Montressor. It was not 
for want of will, ray dear. Somehow liberty is not so easy or 
so possible as we imagine.” 

“ No,” sighed Hermia, releasing the hands she had held so 
long. It is very strange what fragile threads can be our 
fetters sometimes. However, since you are here, I must make 
the most of you. To begin with, take off your wraps and we 
will have some tea here — alone. I have kept a week clear for 
you — as far as women are concerned. It is not half long 
enough, but I cannot help myself.” 

The two women were in Lady Ellingsworth’s boudoir in 
the dusk of an October evening. 

Outside, were rain and mist and chill winds, blowing over a 
Yorkshire moor; within, all the beauty and comfort that 
wealth can bring as handmaidens to art. 

Judith Montressor threw off her heavy traveling cloak, and 
went into the adjoining dressing-room for a few moments to 
remove the dust of her journey, and smooth her hair. 

When she returned the cosy tea-table had been wheeled up 
to the fire, and Lady Ellingsworth was sitting opposite in a 
loose gown of sapphire blue velvet, trimmed and bordered 
with silver fox fur. 

She looked lovelier than ever, her friend thought, though 
this past year had added a line to her smooth brow, and taken 
some of the rich bloom from her face. 

But it was a face cast in such noble mould of beauty that 
time or trouble would never be able to rob it of charm. 

Sit there,” she said with a bright smile, pointing to alow, 
softly cushioned chair near her own. ** You must be tired, 
though you don’t look it.” 

This is very delightful,” said Judith Montressor, glancing 
round at the countless luxuries and beauties of the beautiful 


KITTY THE BAO. 


119 


room. And very feminine,” she added with a smile, as she 
took her cup of tea from the white slender hands. 

‘‘Yes, it is certainly that,’\said Lady Ellingsworth ; “I 
wonder if any woman could do without tea.” 

“ How is it you don’t have it in the hall for the benefit of 
the sportsmen ? ’ ’ asked Mrs. Montressor. 

“ I do generally — but I wanted you all to myself to-day,” 
answered her friend. “ And now tell me all news of Knockrea 
— village and house — beggars and hall. My father never tells 
me anything in his letters.” 

“ Does he not ? Have you heard about the interest he has 
shown in that pretty child : Biddy Maguire’s adopted one — 
Kitty they call her ? ” 

“ I know he is paying for her schooling,” said Lady Ellings- 
worth somewhat coldly. 

“ Oh, but more than that. He had her at the big house for 
her holidays. Poor Mrs. Kinsale was quite put out about it. 
She seemed to think it was not the sort of charity to ‘ begin 
at home.’ And it gave rise to much talk and wonderment in 
the village. But the child has certainly improved marvelously. 
She is lovely, and very intelligent.” 

“ How did Biddy Maguire like her desertion ? ” asked Lady 
Ellingsworth, sipping her delicately creamed Souchong. 

“ Well, you know what the Irish are. Too loyal to betray 
their own feelings at any act of ingratitude. I must say I 
wondered at Kitty, for the poor Balin’ Woman had been so 
counting on having her to herself these holidays, and Johanna 
Reardon went about quoting something to the effect that 
‘ sharper than a thankless child it is to feel a serpent’s tooth.’ ” 

The line on Lady Ellingsworth ’s brow grew deeper. 

“It is very ill-judged on my father’s part,” she said. 
“ Charity is all very well, but one must draw the line at 
favoritism. Of course, people will wonder, and be ill-natured. 
Kitty has no more claim on him than any other child in the 
place. Why should he have singled her out for such marked 
interest ? ” 

“ That is just what they all ask, I am afraid ; but, my dear 
Hermia, your father is a man of singular independence. He 
has always gone his own way, and done what pleased him best. 
He is not likely to take the census of popular opinion about 
any action or whim of his own.” 

Lady Ellingsworth colored slightly, and put down her tea- 
cup. Then she changed the subject by asking a few more 


120 


KITTY THE BAG. 


questions about her old friends and pensioners. She was more 
seriously annoyed than she chose to show. She remembered 
the hints and suspicions to which her father’s conduct had 
given rise when she was at Knockrea, and could not under- 
stand why he should choose to commit so quixotic an action 
as to have this pretty beggar under his own roof. 

Was it only a whim ? 

If so, it was a very cruel one. What was the use of turn- 
ing life into an enchanted fairy tale, if the end was to be a 
bitter awakening to poverty and humiliation ? 

A child reared as Kitty had been — a mere picturesque 
bundle of rags — with eyes like stars, and a quick tongue, and 
a shrewd brain — what use to take her out of her own sphere, 
to teach her discontent and foster her crude ambitions ? 

She had much of the world’s scepticism as to the wisdom 
or honesty of any purpose that lies beyond the accepted 
formulas of life and charity. To her, mystery was intolerable, 
and a kindness unexplained, and seemingly inexplicable, lost 
all claim on the name. 

It really seemed that her father was treating this child much 
as he would treat a pet dog that he had found straying, and 
ownerless. 

She could not believe that his benevolence had in it any 
noble or humane motive. He would tire of it, as he had 
tired of most things in his life — wife and children, friends and 
relatives, among others. 

But she kept these thoughts to herself, and listened with 
warm interest to the hundred and one trifles that Judith Mon- 
tressor related, and her friend never guessed that underlying 
that interest there burnt the fire of an insatiable curiosity re- 
specting Philip Marsden’s real reasons for befriending Kitty 
the Rag. 


As day after day slipped by, the two friends seemed to get 
more closely united by sympathy and affection. They were 
like and unlike enough to be of endless interest to one an- 
other. 

The sins and sorrows of life, the vanity of the world, the 
loneliness and suffering of individual humanity, were things 
well known of each. The idiosyncrasies of sex, the inner 
tragedies of womanhood were alike discussed, 


KITTY THE BAG. 


121 


The men composing the house party were a genial fox-hunt- 
ing, game-potting set, to whom sport meant all that made life 
interesting, and womanhood all that made it expensive. 

They were not men who appealed to either Hermia Ellings- 
worth or Judith Montressor, and for the first week of the 
latter’s visit the two women were thrown entirely together. It 
was fortunate, therefore, that they agreed so well, and had so 
much in common with which to interest or occupy them- 
selves. 

It was not long, however, before Judith Montressor noticed 
that her beautiful friend seemed to regard her husband with 
the most complete indifference. His doings afforded her no 
interest, his presence or absence seemed alike unnoticed. She 
rarely addressed him, except on matters connected with their 
guests or the alfairs of the household, and his dog-like devo- 
tion to herself only seemed to annoy her by any outward dis- 
play. 

Judith Montressor felt that there was something radically 
wrong here, but as her friend never alluded to her domestic 
concerns she scarcely liked to question her on such a delicate 
subject. 

She knew quite enough of the world to know that happy 
marriages are the exception, especially among the higher ranks 
of society. Daughters swayed by the worldly advice of 
mothers, and given to men about whom they know nothing 
save that they are an excellent match, are not likely to develop 
into loving or dutiful wives. Men who are content to buy 
beauty, or take a wife from motives of self-interest, are also 
not likely to develop into tender or comprehensive husbands. 

Marriage, as instituted by Society, has become at once a 
shame and a scourge. Its very name is the mark for latter- 
day satire ; its uses and prerogatives are derided ; and itself 
as an institution hedged in by Expediency on the one side, 
and the Divorce Court on the other. 

Judith Montressor, looking forward into a future prescient 
with feminine insurrection, her own eyes made clear by suf- 
fering, saw with many forebodings that her friend was on the 
side of the coming Insurrectionists. She was actively and 
morbidly unhappy. Neither her wealth nor her beauty, nor 
her own gifts of charm and intelligence, could in any way 
allay the gnawings of her heart’s discontent. 

A hint here, a word there, showed Judith Montressor much 
of that inner nature so carefully veiled from all eyes around — 


122 


KITTY THE RAO, 


SO restless and dissatisfied, so full of bitterness in the present, 
and doubts for the future. 

It was not, however, till the advent of the feminine element 
in the house party that Lady Ellingsworth really approached 
self-betrayal. These frivolous mondainesy these perfumed, 
artificial products of nineteenth century society, offended and 
irritated her at every turn. False to their husbands, capricious 
to their lovers, living only for luxury and vanity, regardless of 
honor as of friendship, aping men in dress and pursuits, im- 
moral in mind and sense if not in actual deed — they were an 
affront and a warning to the sex they at once owned, and de- 
graded, and disclaimed. 

‘ What will they become — what will their children become ! ’ ’ 
exclaimed Judith Montressor, as she sat alone one night in her 
friend’s dressing-room, discussing a certain young duchess who 
had been airing principles of revolt that some years later were 
destined to become universal. 

Lady Ellingsworth shrugged her graceful shoulders under 
the soft white cashmere of her dressing robe. 

I’m sure I don’t know,” she said. They seem bent on 
a revolution of sex. As for their children — ^judging from what 
Lady Aldyth said — there will be no children to follow in their 
footsteps, for maternity is a degradation.” 

And they don’t believe in love — in the sacredness of any 
tie between man, or woman, or child. They want to make a 
universal holocaust of accepted morality. Fancy such women 
governing the country ! at the helm of State ! Heavens ! it is 
appalling to think of it.” 

Oh, they will never acquire such power as that,” said 
Lady Ellingsworth. In the first place the country would 
not allow female legislators ; in the next no body of women 
would ever act together as men do, for general instead of 
individual benefit. There is no spirit of camaraderie among 
women as among men. They are innately jealous of one 
another — of looks, gifts, talents; everything in fact — and 
such jealousy would breed a legion of foes in every citadel 
and every camp that had feminine leaders. Then women 
are not logical. They are too easily biassed, and too 
readily swayed by mere temporary feelings. Neither do I 
consider they have fixed principles, or that sort of esprit de 
corps which binds men so closely and enables them to act 
as a united force.” 

think you are right,” said Judith Montressor thought- 


KITTY THE BAG. 


123 


fully. * ‘ Not one woman in a hundred is capable of forgetting 
herself in any general enterprise or movement. Little petty 
slights and ^animosities continually crop up where women 
are banded together, and underneath seeming friendship 
there is an inherent animosity. Even in sewing clubs and 
Dorcas societies, or such purely feminine institutions, there 
is the constant want of general self-abnegation for the main 
good. If the same feeling is carried into wider movements ' 
— say the clubs they were talking of to-night — I fear they 
will prove equal failures. A woman may like one woman, 
stick to her, believe in her, befriend her, but I have never 
found one who is inclined to take the whole sex to her 
heart in one sisterly embrace. Besides, it is a curious fact 
that power generally makes a woman tyrannical. Give her a 
throne, an empire — even the slight fame of the world’s 
appreciation — and she shows herself arrogant and greedy for 
more, and envious of any rivalry.” 

“ How you have studied the sex, my dear,” said Lady 
Ellingsworth a little bitterly. 

*‘Yes,” answered Judith Montressor, have had good 
reason to do so. No one knows a woman but a woman, and 
we are quite aware of the fact — individually.” 

“Well, those who are staying here at present are a very 
bad sample, let us hope,” remarked Lady Ellingsworth. 

“ Why ask them to your house ? ” 

“Oh, my dear Judith, what can I do? Ellingsworth has 
his set, and I am bound to ask the wives or ‘ affinities ’ be- 
longing to them.” 

“Ah,” said her friend gently, “that is what does the 
mischief. We are never strong enough to set ourselves 
against the current of conventionalities. It is always a case 
of * what has been, must be.’ Now, her grace of D’Eyncourt, 
for example. Could anything be in worse taste than her 
dress, her manners, or ” 

“ Her amours ? ” interpolated Lady Ellingsworth. “ No, 

I think not. But then the Duke doesn’t mind, and Society 
has a pretty little fiction concerning the purity of wives who 
have complaisant husbands.” 

“ It is all very disgraceful and very degrading,” said Judith 
sadly, “and a very dangerous example besides.” 

Lady Ellingsworth laughed contemptuously. 

“Oh ! ” she said, “ it only means the birth of a new era 
the Woman’s Era. I wonder what she wiU make of it? 


124 


KITTY THE BAG, 


How signalize her independence ? How much private 
grievances will have to answer for public denunciation of 
her wrongs, and the injustice so long her portion ! ’' 

They both relapsed into silence, each following out a train 
of thought. 

Suddenly, as if mastered by an impulse. Lady Ellings- 
worth laid her hand on that of her friend. 

“ Ah, Judith,” she said in a low choked voice, it is good 
to have one friend in the world, one heart one can depend 
on, one soul one can trust. A year ago I was so unhappy 
that I could have matched any of these women for reckless- 
ness. I owe it to you that I drew back in time.” 

“I know you are unhappy,” said Judith softly, “and you 
have all my sympathy, as you know. I will not wrong you 
by uttering those old platitudes that you have much to 
be thankful for. A woman is never thankful for an empty 
life — a heart starved of its natural food. We are poor 
creatures at best, I think, Hermia, but we are at our worst 
when we have no ties of love to serve as ballast for our 
weakness.” 

“You believe in love? ” 

“Certainly I do. What woman can help it? But I 
believe we too often mistake our own love of Love the 
passion, for love of the individual. A girl’s heart is an 
instrument far too easily turned by skilful fingers — far too 
easily captured by flattery or compassion. She idealizes her 
lover because he embodies her dreams of love, because he 
represents himself as suffering for her sake. Once the lover 
becomes the husband, she learns the mistake she has made. 
Only one thing can win her from despair, that awful despair 
of facing an irrevocable mistake.” 

“ And that? ” asked Hermia in a low strained voice. 

“Is motherhood, Hermia. I often pity you. That heart- 
loneliness of yours could be cured only by a child’s innocent 
love. You would be happy then, believe me.” 

She looked up at the beautiful proud face beside her, and 
saw it grow suddenly scarlet ; flushed and quivering as if 
with some painful memory. 

“ You are quite wrong, Judith,” she cried fiercely. “ Quite. 
I should hate a child. If one thing could make my life 
more shameful and unbearable than it is, it would be to 
know that I had given life to any other creature who would 
own my wretched sex, or live to curse its father’s,” 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


125 


Hermia, what are you saying ? ” 

The blood ebbed back. The fierce impulse was mastered 
by the strong will. Lady Ellingsworth leaned back in her 
chair, both hands pressed against her throbbing heart. 

‘‘Don’t tempt me to self-betrayal,” she cried hoarsely. 
“There is that in my life which would make even you de- 
spise me ! I am not the creature you fancy me. I am not 
what the world knows me. I am what my own wretched 
folly made me. Oh ! of all living things that I loathe and 
shrink from, there is none so worthy my loathing as the 
thing I call myself.” 

Judith Montressor shuddered, and turned pale. “ These 
are strong words,” she said. “ Are you sure they are not 
the mere outcome of morbid feeling? ” 

Hermia looked at her long and silently. 

“If a day ever comes,” she said, “ when I can tell you, 
I will do so. But it will not be easy, and it will cost me 
all your esteem.” 

“You cannot tell,” said Judith gently. “Who am I 
that I should judge another? Be sure that you may trust 
me even as yourself. Friendship is no light thing in my 
eyes.” 

“I know that, or I could not have spoken as I have 
done.” 

She sighed deeply; the eyes that rested on the leaping 
fire flames grew suddenly dim. 

“ Oh, wretched fate to be a woman ! ” she cried bitterly. 
“A thousand sins sit more lightly on a man’s shoulders, 
than one mistake may do on ours 1 ” 


126 


KITTY THE EAG, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

For days and nights following that strange self-betrayal, 
Judith Montressor pondered often and deeply on what it 
meant. 

The usual interpretation that she would have put upon it, 
had it been uttered by any other woman, was not the interpre- 
tation she could apply to any act of Hermia Ellingsworth’s, in 
the past or present. Yet she felt there was something wrong, 
some secret care gnawing at that proud heart, some memory 
of wrong inflicted or committed that lay like a canker under 
the surface splendor of that outward life. 

She never asked her confidence. She never, as days 
slipped into weeks, even alluded to that half-uttered con- 
fession. 

Strong of heart and loyal of nature as few women are, she 
preferred to trust to time and Hermia’s own feelings for its 
renewal. Some day the veil would be withdrawn from that 
secret shrine ; some day the story would be told. She waited 
in patience, betraying by no word or look the trouble at her 
own heart, the dread that behind these present smiling skies 
there lurked dark clouds of storm. 

For she saw there was something reckless and strange about 
Lord Ellingsworth. She heard whispers of debts, of floating 

paper,” of the wanton extravagance that characterized his 
own and his wife’s expenditure ; rumors feeble and idle as 
straws upon the wind, but like the straws indicative of the di- 
rection in which the wind was blowing. 

Meanwhile the lavishness and luxury of the life at Yarrow 
could scarcely have been equalled by that at Chatsworth, or 
Welbeck. Added to this, Ellingsworth’s racing stables cost 
him a small fortune, and as yet the wonderful colts that issued 
thence had only succeeded in just missing” the winning 
post by several seconds. To Judith Montressor, as an on- 
looker, it seemed that no fortune, however princely, could 
stand against the luxuries and claims, the follies and extrava- 
gances, which marked the life at Yarrow Court. She dared 
not utter her fears, but insensibly a note of warning crept into 
her conversations with her friend. At first Hermia smiled in 


KITTY THE HAG. 


127 


serene incredulity. It seemed to her that Ellingsworth’s for- 
tune was an Aladdin’s lamp, whose capacities were inexhaust- 
ible. He had never given her the slightest hint of difficulties, 
and she would as soon have thought of interfering with his ex- 
penditure as with his nightly “ baccarat ” or ** loo.” 

She never thought that a capital such as Ellingsworth’s 
might be encroached upon to a ruinous extent. She never re- 
flected that only to fortunes amassed by trade and kept going 
by an ignored and successful business, is immunity from 
failure possible. It seemed to her that such wealth as they 
possessed could never fail them, and she laughed to scorn any 
hint or suggestion of her more prudent friend. 

People came and stayed for shooting parties, or races, and 
were entertained in princely fashion. The nightly card parties 
meant losses and risks that were appalling to contemplate. 
Money was spent like water on every luxury or vanity of the 
moment, and neither host nor hostess ever seemed to remember 
that there might be such a thing as a day of reckoning in the 
future. 

When Judith Montressor had been a month at Yarrow, she 
began to hint at departure. Lady Ellingsworth, however, 
would not hear of it. She brought a battery of arguments and 
persuasions to bear on her friend, and in the end persuaded 
her to remain a fortnight longer. The last three days of 
that fortnight witnessed the departure of the last house party 
before Christmas, and the two women were glad to be once 
more alone. 

The first day of their solitude d deux. Lord Ellingsworth 
had gone to a meet at some distance. He would not be home 
till dark, and his wife, coming back from a drive about five 
o’clock, ordered tea in the boudoir, instead of in the hall as 
usual. 

A slight, fine rain had begun to fall, and the wind had risen 
as the day closed in. Lady Ellingsworth drew closer to the 
fire, and shivered. 

How I hate the winter,” she said, and how I hate this 
place ! As soon as you are gone, I shall make Ellingsworth 
come to Nice with me. If only you would come too, Judith,” 
she added with a faint sigh. 

‘*Oh, my dear, you have had quite enough of me,” said 
Mrs. Montressor, ** and I really think you ought to give a lit- 
tle of your society to your husband. I fancy sometimes he 
feels a little jealous.” 


128 


KITTY THE EAG. 


“Jealous ! ” Hermia raised her beautiful head, and looked 
in unaffected surprise at the speaker. “ My dearest, what can 
you mean ? Jealous of whom — or what? ” 

“ Of every one who monopolizes you — of every claim that 
seems to engross you and exclude him.” 

“Oh, nonsense,” said Lady Ellingsworth sharply. “He 
cannot expect me to be for ever by his side.” 

“ I think you are never by his side at all,” said her friend 
quietly. 

“We have so little in common,” went on Lady Ellings- 
worth. “ The things that interest him don’t interest me. He 
only cares for horses, or gets excited over cards. Now I can- 
not feel like that. There seems something cruel in the way 
they train those beautiful * two-year-olds ’ of his, and stable 
talk has no interest for me, and I hate cards.” 

“ Yes, 1 know you never play. But still, have you tried to 
find out whether Lord Ellingsworth has any other interests ? 
Whether there is not some common ground of sympathy on 
which you might meet? ” 

Lady Ellingsworth looked frankly astonished. 

“My dearest Judith,” she said, “surely you have seen 
enough of us both to judge our tastes and opinions. There is 
no such thing as a common meeting ground for us. Ellings- 
worth is of the earth earthy. He has no soul and very little 
intellect. Rugby and Oxford didn’t do much to develop 
either, and trainers and jockeys have been hardly more suc- 
cessful. Why, when we are alone we haven’t a single subject 
of mutual interest to talk about. We are ready to yawn our 
heads off in a tete-d-tete of ten minutes’ duration. The reason 
we are such good friends is that we see each other as seldom 
as possible.” 

^ “Oh, Hermia! that is society cant, not your true self 
speaking.” 

Lady Ellingsworth put down her cup abruptly. 

“ As I live, Judith, it is the truth. Oh ! I know it sounds 
unfeeling, hateful — but I can’t help it. I married him without 
a particle of love for him, and marriage has not awakened the 
feeling I lacked. It has been a continual effort, this life we 
lead. Sometimes I have thought I could not bear it ; I must 
break down ! ” 

She clasped her hands tightly ; her eyes filled with tears. 

“It is all my own fault, of course. I know that. I mar- 
ried him to satisfy ambition ; for peace, for safety.” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


129 


** Safety, Hermia? ” 

“Can’t you understand the sort of desperate feeling that 
makes a woman want to get away from herself, from her own 
misery, her own surroundings ? That makes her take even a 
man’s love as a refuge ? ” 

“ I can understand, but I feel sorry for the man.” 

“ He knew. I told him. Do not fancy I deceived him, 
Judith. But he was content with a one-sided bargain. He 
should not complain now.” 

“ Does he ? I have never heard him.” 

* ‘ Then what made you say you thought he was un- 
happy ? ” 

“ I judged from his face, his manner. No one could help 
seeing he adores you, Hermia, or that ” 

“ That I don’t adore him ? ” 

“ Yes, that is how the situation strikes rhe. I am prepared 
to take a common-sense view of marriage, but if there is a lack 
of love, at least there should be friendship, companionship, 
sympathy, to make up for that loss. Now you, it seems to me, 
have nothing.” 

“ You forget,” she said bitterly, “ my splendid position, my 
wealth, my diamonds ! ” 

“ If you lost these? ” 

“ Lost them ? My dear Judith, what an absurd idea ! How 
could I lose them ? They are substantial realities, which 
love is not. They are my part of the bargain ; I should con- 
sider Ellingsworth had shamefully defrauded me if there was 
any likelihood of my ever losing them ! ” 

“ You talk as if you were quite heartless, Hermia. I do not 
believe you mean it. I have not studied you, cared for you, 
only to find that you are a selfish 77iondainey like her wicked 
< little grace of D’Eyncourt.” 

For a moment Lady Ellingsworth was silent. Her eyes 
were still on the glowing coals; the light played upon her 
tightly clasped fingers, and on the plain, thick band of her 
wedding ring. She wore no other to-night. 

“Perhaps I am only heartless,” she said at last, “where 
men are concerned.” 

“ Then you have loved an unworthy one. Nothing hardens 
us like such an experience.” 

“ No,” said Lady Ellingsworth in a strange suppressed voice, 
“he was not unworthy — but I lost him. We were separated. 
We shall never meet again this side the grave.” 

9 


130 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Death,” said Judith Montressor slowly, 'Vis not always so 
final as unworthiness. Perhaps your heart will not be always 
hard to all men because you have lost — one.” 

A shiver, as of sudden cold, ran through Lady Ellings- 
worth’s slender frame. 

" I must make what I can of my life,” she said. " I have 
no one to blame for its past or present suffering save myself. 
Only,” and her eyes fell on the gold circlet on her third finger, 
“only,” she went on hurriedly, “don’t ask me to pretend I 
love my husband. I was never a hypocrite; I can’t begin to 
be one now. If he is unhappy I am also unhappy. If he re- 
grets he must surely remember it is his own fault. I have 
given him all he asked for ; more he has not the right to ex- 
pect, or I the power to grant.” 

“ I think,” said Judith Montressor, with sudden passion, 
“ that of all legal institutions there is none so hateful as mar- 
riage. It makes us slaves, or criminals. It turns us into hypo- 
crites to good men, and passive dupes to bad ones. Know- 
ingly or unknowingly, we forge the fetters of an endless misery 
when we give ourselves to a lifelong union.” 

“ Was your marriage so unhappy then? ” 

“Unhappy ! ” She lifted her head for a moment, then as 
suddenly it dropped on her clasped hands, and there was 
silence. 

In the midst of that silence a sound as of muffled feet, of 
heavy tread, came suddenly on the still night air. 

The plash of falling rain was audible. The fitful wind had 
died away into faint moaning. Lady Ellingsworth found her- 
self wondering what was the meaning of the sounds. It was 
too late for visitors, and Ellingsworth rarely came up the drive. 
His habit was to leave his hunter at the stables. 

Then a bell pealed. She heard the door opened ; she 
glanced at her friend ; and then, bending forward, she lightly 
touched the clasped fingers. 

“Judith,” she said softly, “Judith.” 

Mrs. Montressor lifted her face. It was ashy white. 

At that moment a knock came at the door, and a footman 
entered. 

“ Your pardon, my lady,” he said, and there was something 
strange and flurried in his manner and his voice, “ there is a 
gentleman in the hall wishes to speak to you.” 

“ To me ? Who is it ? What is his name ? ” asked his mis- 
tress haughtily. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


131 


His name,” said the man, “ is Dr. Wrenford. There has 
been an accident, my lady, and my lord is badly hurt.” 

Hermia rose slowly and unsteadily and faced the man. 

“ An accident? ” she said faintly. 

Judith Montressor sprang to her feet and went toward her. 

I will go down with you,” she said. 

The footman drew back to let them pass. Even his impas- 
sive face betrayed what that accident meant ; the one, the only 
accident that opens the gates of life to everlasting freedom 1 


132 


KITTY THE BAG. 


CHAPTER XX. 

They had brought him home — dead. 

He had broken his neck taking one of the stiffest fences. A 
slip, a jerk of rein, and then that sickening, horrible thud ” 
which no man who has once heard it ever quite forgets. 

Death had been almost instantaneous. They had taken him 
to the nearest doctor’s, but all knew it was hopeless even be- 
fore the eye of science had glanced at the impassive face. 
Dr. Wrenford accompanied the body home in order to break 
the news to Lady Ellingsworth. 

She received it with that frozen calm which is at once a 
comfort and a puzzle to those who look for a woman’s hysteri- 
cal grief. 

She felt as if she had not a tear to shed, but a bitter wave 
of remorse swept over her heart as she gazed at that quiet face, 
that motionless figure, and remembered that even as he had 
looked his last on life she had been saying such hard and cruel 
things about him. 

She felt a loathing and contempt for herself beyond the 
power of words ; and into the feeling there crept a fear of that 
destiny she had evoked, and by whose hand her fortunes and 
her future would be shaped. 

She stood alone by the dead man’s side and tried to realize 
what had happened. It was an hour when sophistry and false 
faiths fell, shivered by the touch of the spear of truth. Then 
she peered into the dim chasm of the future, and wondered 
where he was, what he had learnt, how that wonderful vitality 
and joyousness of his could have sunk into this unbreakable 
silence. 

Had he learnt her secret ? Could he, even at this very mo- 
ment, be looking down at her from some vault of space, read- 
ing her heart, knowing her as she knew herself? 

She shivered with deadly fear, and threw herself beside the 
couch on which that rigid form lay stretched. 

Ellingsworth,” she whispered, ‘‘can you hear? Do you 
know at last? Can you forgive? Can you not make some 
sign? Are you so far away — already ? ” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


133 


She raised her eyes, wide and strained, to the impassive face. 
Her hand touched the marble cold of lifeless fingers. Against 
the oriel window fell the rain like heavy tears, and round the 
great desolate mansion sighed the moaning wind. 

She rose, trembling with fear and cold alike. 

She moved slowly away, her face turned to his, that for the 
first time in their lives together, had no smile of welcome, no 
light of love. 

“I am sorry now, Ellingsworth,” she said again in that 
strange whisper. “ Oh ! believe it, believe it — if God will let 
you hear.” 

Nothing broke the silence but the moaning wind. 

A terror of that dumb figure, of the mystery and stillness 
now for ever its portion, swept over her tortured nerves. Her 
hand was on the door handle. She felt a strange throbbing in 
her throat. She longed to cry, to speak, but could not. Iron 
bands seemed to hold her in their clasp, while all her straining 
forces fought against them. And still her eyes were on that 
inert form. She could not turn her back upon it, or get away. 

Suddenly all grew dark around, and from the darkness it 
seemed to her that a face looked forth, white and strangely 
radiant. Closer it came and closer, and involuntarily her 
hands went out as if to press it back and away into the cloud 
from whence it had issued. 

A shrill cry of terror broke from her lips. 

<< Judith ! ” she cried, and fell prone upon the floor, clasped 
in the gathering darkness that had engulfed her swooning 
senses. 


The blinds were drawn, and the great mansion given up to 
mourning and decorous desolation. 

Cards, and wreaths, and condolences were showered on the 
beautiful young widow, and in due time the last great ceremony 
of all took place with proper state and form. 

Then came the prose of actual realities, the arrival of men 
of business, the “ looking into ” affairs long neglected and 
now in well-nigh hopeless entanglement ; the peering and pry- 
ing and investigation that daily and hourly revealed worse com- 
plications. In the end the brief announcement was made that 
the late lord’s affairs were as bad as they well could be ; that 
apart from her settlements his wife had nothing. 


134 


KITTY THE RAO. 


The heir, a penurious, semi-aesthetic youth, now at Christ 
Church, came down to Yarrow in a state of righteous indigna- 
tion at his late cousin’s follies and extravagances, and in the 
end the horses were sold, the retainers dismissed, and Lady 
Ellingsworth found herself a female Ichabod returning sadly 
to her father’s roof once more. 

She need not have gone there, but in her desolation and 
loneliness her heart yearned for her Irish home and her Irish 
friends. Besides, she would be near Judith Montressor, the 
one creature to whom she had turned for comfort and sympa- 
thy in those first days of desolation ; the one creature who had 
given her both freely and unstintingly, as only a generous na- 
ture can give. 

Trouble and sorrow had drawn them closer together even 
than before, and after a few days spent at Knockrea, Lady 
Ellingsworth announced to her father that she intended to take 
a house in the neighborhood and live in Ireland altogether. 

The announcement did not seem to please him. Of course 
he could not prevent her doing what she chose, but he raised 
every possible and impossible objection to her remaining in the 
neighborhood of Knockrea. 

The most reasonable one, and the one presenting the great- 
est difficulty, was that there was no suitable house to be found. 

But even that was conquered in the course of a few months. 
It turned out that a certain Desmond Moira, possessor of a 
large house and encumbered estate, was anxious to dispose of 
both on lease. 

Lady Ellingsworth’s lawyers arranged for the subletting of 
this property to their client, and as soon as the necessary for- 
malities had been gone through she took up her abode at 
Mount Moira. 

At her first glance around Hermia discovered that she would 
have endless occupation in altering, restoring, and rearranging 
her new home. Most ancient families in Ireland suffer from 
impecuniosity, and the Moiras had been no exception. Things 
had gone from bad to worse during the twenty years that Des- 
mond Moria had occupied Mount Moira. He had never had 
enough money for himself or his rapidly increasing family, 
leaving alone such trifles as the papering or decorating of 
mouldy rooms, the repairing of fences, the culture of gardens 
or orchard, the roofing of cabins, or the general welfare of 
tenants. 

To have secured a good tenant, a good rental, and immunity 


KITTY THE RAG. 


135 


from the duns, debts, and difficulties so long his portion, were 
indeed things to be grateful for. 

He was duly and daily grateful for them in a land far re- 
moved from Erin’s treacherous skies and uncertain inhabitants, 
and by a happy concord of circumstances Lady Ellingsworth 
was equally grateful for being enabled to play the Lady Boun- 
tiful to those warm-hearted, eccentric, and poverty-stricken 
beings whom she loved more than she loved anything on earth. 

The best, and, indeed, only remedy for sorrow is constant 
occupation. It is the people who have nothing to do in life 
and “do it with all their hearts ” that become hypochondriacs 
and melancholists. To Hermia Ellingsworth the days were 
scarcely long enough for the thousand and one duties and 
cares which filled up her time. 

She had money enough to make her house beautiful, and to 
administer countless charities on a system organized by Judith 
Montressor and herself. The system was less appreciated than 
the gifts, as might be expected, for the lower-class Irish are 
decidedly not a well-regulated order, and prefer a coin thrown 
haphazard which costs no more trouble than a blessing, to a 
useful or more beneficent form of charity. 

But Lady Ellingsworth was decidedly popular, and she un- 
derstood the people thoroughly for all her seeming pride and 
coldness. The poor and the suffering never found her proud, 
or felt her cold to their sorrows. 

Her first year at Mount Moira was one of peace, and of 
mental and bodily occupation that insensibly were of immense 
benefit. People wondered a little at first that she was so sel- 
dom at her father’s or that he so rarely came to her ; but after 
deciding that it was none of their business, and then invent- 
ing a hundred and one theories to account for it, they accepted 
the fact as it stood, and put it down to English coldness of 
heart. 

Philip Marsden had never been popular. He was less so 
than ever by contrast with his daughter, and her far more free 
and easy style of living. 

Meanwhile it seemed to Hermia that rest and peace were at 
last her portion, and happiness more nearly hers than it had 
been since her childhood. 

The companionship of Judith Montressor, the delight of liv- 
ing among old friends, and amidst familiar scenes, more than 
compensated for the bitterness of memories that lay in the 
background gf both. The calls and claims of society were 


136 


KITTY THE BAG. 


here unheard and unheeded. The restless, artificial life she 
had so long led, faded like a dream into the present useful and 
simple and well-ordered days that made up the sum of exist- 
ence. 

“If it might only last; if the future would only be like the 
present, I should be quite content,” she said one night to her 
friend, who had been dining at Mount Moira. 

“ Would you? Then you are more easily contented than I 
imagined. What about society ? ” 

“ I have as much society here as I wish for.” 

“But it is not the society you have been accustomed to. 
Irish people, at least in this part of the world, are not very 
intellectual. Their minds seldom soar above their own or 
their neighbors’ concerns. Social intercourse here means a 
great deal of gossip, flavored by strong personalities, and very 
little conversation.” 

“ I think there is usually a great deal of conversation,” said 
Lady Ellingsworth smiling. 

“Ah, no, my dear, that is just what there is not. Talk is 
not conversation. Do you never get tired of discussing what 
people do, or have done, or are going to do ? Of moving 
round and round in a circle so narrow that it always brings 
you back at a given time to the starting point ? ” 

“ If the circle is narrow,” said Lady Ellingsworth, “ at 
least it is not so vicious or so selfish as the one I have left.” 

“You would not care to go back?” asked Judith Mon- 
tressor in a low voice. 

“ No, never again, never again.” 

She shuddered, and her eyes fell on the black folds of her 
gown. 

“ It is all over, all done with. It was a mistake, a false 
thing from the first. I have escaped. I can breathe the air 
of freedom at last. Does a prisoner once released ever seek 
the prison and the shackles again, Judith ? ” 

“ No, not often ; unless circumstances drive him to it.” 

“ No circumstances,” she said with a shudder, “ could ever 
drive me back to — marriage. It is strange,” she continued 
presently, “that I always find myself pitying him now. He 
was so little to me, and yet our lives were linked together, and 
I was so much to him. And I never troubled, I never cared. 
I never tried to influence him. I never showed him as much 
sympathy as I would to my horse, or my dog ! And the 
strangest part of all was that I never felt any sense of my own 


KITTY THE RAG. 


137 


heartlessness till — till that awful day when I saw him lying 
there so cold and still. Oh, Judith, why can’t our dead come 
back even for an hour, a moment? Why can’t they tell us 
something — a word, only a word? Just, ‘ I forgive ! ’ How 
much it would mean, what hours of misery it would save ! ” 

*‘Yes,” said Judith Montressor thoughtfully, “it would. 
One cannot help wondering whether mercy or judgment has 
made death the terrible thing it is. It would have been so 
easy to make the border land just faintly visible, one thinks; 
to have left the possibility of a sign or message before the gates 
were for ever closed.” 

“I thought that,” cried Hermia eagerly. “I called to 
him, I prayed to him. It seemed impossible he could have 
gone so far away that no word of mine could reach him. 
Judith, do you think the dead know everything about us once 
they pass into the other life? Our secrets — our sins ” 

Her voice was almost a whisper. She glanced half fearfully 
round the great room, with its dim corners and shadowy re- 
cesses. 

“My dearest, I cannot tell any more than yourself,” an- 
swered Mrs. Montressor. “ The wisest men cannot tell ; they 
can only surmise, theorize, build up hopes on the foundation 
of Christ’s words ; those words which we deny in act every 
day of our lives, by way of proving our right to be called 
Christians.” 

Hermia sighed heavily. “ I wish I knew,” she said, and a 
sudden scarlet glow leapt to her face as she met her friend’s in- 
quiring gaze. 

“ Is there something you are afraid of his knowing, Her- 
mia? ” 

“Yes,” she said, “there is. I have a secret in my life 
that I can tell to no one — that I have told to no one. The 
thought that torments me now, and always, Judith, is the 
wonder if he knows, if he despises me, as God knows I de- 
spise myself ! ” 

She covered her face with her hands, as if to hide that burn- 
ing flush. 

Judith Montressor looked at her in silence and perplexity. 
They had never strayed so near the border-line of mystery as 
this. In all the wild words of self-reproach Lady Ellingsworth 
had heaped upon herself at that terrible time, she had never 
betrayed a personal reason for them. A strange fear crept into 
her friend’s heart now. 


138 


KITTY THE BAQ. 


I won’t ask you anything, Hermia,” she said. There 
are some things which a woman ought never to tell, I think — 
things that concern her own honor, or another’s. I will only 
say, don’t allow yourself to get morbid over fancied errors. We 
are all weak in a greater or less degree. We all sin in one way 
or another ; most women call it gaining experience. I think 
you and I are too candid to clothe our sins so lightly, but we 
feel the sting of them all the more.” 

“I used to wonder,” said Hermia, dropping her hands 
again on her sombre crape, ‘‘what it meant about the ‘worm 
dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.’ I think I know 
now.” 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


139 


CHAPTER XXI. 

During these months at Knockrea, Hermia had never 
spoken to her father on the subject of Kitty the Rag. 

The child had returned to school long before she had come 
back to Ireland, and as Philip Marsden never alluded to the 
subject she felt disinclined to introduce it. 

Mount Moira was a considerable distance from the great 
house and the village, and once established there, Lady El- 
lingsworth saw very little of her father. 

Biddy Maguire was away on some of her journeys, so they 
had not met as yet, and though Lady Ellingsworth often 
thought of the child she never spoke of her to any one, even 
to Judith Montressor. 

It happened, however, that one evening she was dining with 
her old friend. Dr. Garrick, and he brought up the subject 
what time he lingered over his fruity old port, and famous 
wall fruit. 

“You know, of course,” he said, that your father is 
educating that pretty, wild creature of Biddy Maguire’s. 
There’s quite a transformation scene now. I hardly knew her 
when I saw her. She’s at a school in England — but to every 
one’s surprise he let her spend her holidays at the house. My- 
self, I thought it a mistake, and none too grateful of the child 
to so quickly turn her back on old friends. ’Twas just about 
this time last year. Have you heard whether she will be here 
again ? ’ ' 

“ No,” said Hermia, “ I never speak about her to my father. 
It is a whim of his, I suppose. I remember the child well. 
She was a lovely, wild-looking elf, and intelligent it seemed to 
me.” 

“Intelligent? Faith, she is that,” laughed the doctor. 
“ Sharp as a needle and quick as a monkey. It’s odd that no 
one has ever got the rights of her story yet. Biddy Maguire 
is as close as a burr on that point.” 

“Perhaps,” said Hermia, “there is no story to get at. 
People are too ready to make a mystery out of nothing.” 

“ Irish people especially,” said Dr. Carrick, with a twinkle 
in his eye. “And in this little hole too, where they’ve none 


140 


KITTY THE BAG. 


too much to do, or to talk about. I often wonder, my dear 
Plermia, why you have returned to us. Young, beautiful, free 
— with all the world before you — it seems a sort of exile to 
bury yourself here in an out-of-the-way Irish village.” 

“ It is my native place,” said Hermia quietly, and I care 
for it more than for any other I have known. A few loving 
hearts and one or two true friends, doctor, are more to me 
than the false brilliance of society.” 

It is a wise choice,” he said, but a strange one.” 

*^It does not seem strange. You forget that I have lived 
more in my few years of exile, than you quiet folk do in half 
a century.” 

Dr. Garrick sipped his wine thoughtfully. ** Ah, well,” 
he said, “ of course you have only yourself to please, and a 
woman can always do that. You like Mount Moira, don’t 
you? I shouldn’t advise you to spend too much money on 
the place. You’ll get no thanks, and certainly no interest for 
your outlay.” 

‘‘I have money enough,” she said, ‘‘to spend a few thou- 
sands on improving the estate. I feel so sorry for the people 
— they are such a poverty-stricken, neglected race of beings. 
I rode over to Mountreath the other day to see some refractory 
tenants who had not paid any rent for six years, but when I 
got to their cabin I hadn’t the heart to say a word. Such 
poverty and misery ! Oh ! it was terrible. One couldn’t 
have the heart to ask them to pay for their wretched hovel, 
and their few barren acres. Dr. Garrick, why couldn’t some- 
thing be done for Ireland ? Surely there is something very 
wrong about our laws — our system ? In England you never 
see siich grinding poverty, such wretchedness and want as you 
do here. I mean in the agricultural districts.” 

“No,” he said, “I suppose not. But you ask me a diffi- 
cult question, Hermia — one that has puzzled the wisest heads 
in the two countries. Of this I feel sure, that if Ireland was 
lifted out of its present slough of difficulty, freed of debts, set 
on its legs so to speak, to work for itself, things would be ex- 
actly the same in two years as they are now. The poorer 
classes are a priest-ridden, superstitious race, kept in wilful 
ignorance, and inherently lazy. ‘ Sufficient for to-day ’ has 
always been the motto of an Irishman, and it is the vengeance 
of all their ignored ‘ to-morrows ’ that exacts so much suffer- 
ing and misery.” 

“But the priests are very kind — very good.” 


KITTY THE RAG. 


141 


That may be ; they do their best, I have no doubt, but it 
is an odd fact that all countries held in the trammels of the 
Romish Church are miserable and poor, and in a perpetual 
state of anarchy and confusion. Ireland, Spain and Italy are 
signal examples, and France is not far behind. Entire free- 
dom of religious thought is essential to the progress and welfare 
of every country.” 

“We have that in England,” said Hermia. “Heaven 
knows there are sects and religions enough there to drive any 
thinking soul distracted. But do you believe they are a whit 
more moral or virtuous in the relationships of life, or the 
transactions of business, than other nations ? They claim to 
be so; but surface morality is one thing and spiritual another. 
The outward hypocrisy of the life I have seen is the most per- 
fect confutation of a boastful Christianity, for ever clutching 
at self-interest and pleasure, ready to sacrifice every one and 
everything for its own gain. Individual life, lived purely and 
simply for the general welfare, is the only thing worth calling 
religion — the thing that Christ preached, the thing men find 
impossible. They glorify the Cross in our churches — the out- 
ward symbol of our Lord’s degradation — but it is as much the 
sign of our rejection of Him to-day, as it was when the Jews 
raised it on the slopes of Calvary ! ” 

Dr. Carrick looked at her wonderingly. This was a new- 
Hermia indeed — one who had thought and lived, and looked 
below life, not merely on it. 

In his quiet, humdrum life such thoughts rarely intruded. 
He, too, had accepted the “sufficient for the day” theory as 
at once the most comfortable and least troublesome. Her- 
mia’s words disturbed him somewhat, and puzzled him too. 

There seemed something incongruous in a young, beautiful 
woman taking life so seriously, and so cynically. Happiness 
does not trouble about the large outside element of suffering, 
rising mist-like above the surface of life. It is pain that stirs 
the soul from its sleep of content — pain that for ourselves or 
our fellow-sufferers usurps the throne of peace, and keeps its 
subjects in perpetual conflict for evermore. 

Was she unhappy, he wondered, or were words like these 
the mere outcome of impersonal feeling — the fruit of others’ 
thoughts ? 

He looked at her as she leant back in her chair, apparently 
forgetful of his presence, absorbed in her own reflections. 

If he could have read her thoughts he would have seen that 


142 


KITTY THE TAQ. 


she was back in memory with that awful hour that had first 
brought her face to face with the mystery of death. That still 
her heart for ever asked one question of the silence — Do you 
know? . . . Can you forgive? ” 

Some moments are epochs in our lives — facing us unexpect- 
edly, disarming our weakness, showing us ourselves as we 
had not seen or known we were. 

Such a moment — such an epoch had Hermia known. It 
had changed her, roused her, forced her to think of that 
future to which death is the life. Darkness was over her soul, 
and to and fro it tossed helplessly on an uncertain sea, lost in 
a mist of confusion, seeking in vain for anchorage among the 
thousand creeds and faiths scattered broadcast at the choice of 
humanity. 

The old doctor’s voice roused her at last from her train of 
thought. 

“ We seem to have wandered a long way from Irish differ- 
ences,” he said, **and it is growing dark. Shall we go into 
the drawing-room, and will you give me some music ? You 
know how I love it. I asked Mrs. Montressor and the rector 
to come in by-and-by for a game of whist; but if you are 
kind you will let me hear ^ She is far from the land ’ or ‘ The 
Castle of Dromore ’ before they come.” 

She rose at once and they went into the old-fashioned draw- 
ing-room, where the candles were lit. The soft glow of the 
twilight was resting on the garden, and through the open 
windows gleamed the pale saffron tints of the sky where the 
sickle of a young moon was faintly outlined. 

Hermia seated herself at the piano and then blew out the 
candles on either side. I can sing better in the dusk,” she 
said, *‘and I am going to sing you something new for a 
change. I learnt it in London.” 

She struck a few chords, and he drew up his chair to the 
window and leant back in an attitude of contemplated enjoy- 
ment. 

The wooing softness and sweetness of Hermia’s voice 
seemed to have gained new depth and pathos since he had last 
heard it. He did not know the song she sang, but its melan- 
choly and beauty went to his heart and made his eyes grow 
dim as he listened. 

As the closing notes fell on the air, the loud peal of the 
house-bell rang out shrilly. The doctor looked uneasily at the 
door. 


mTTY THE RAG. 


143 


It sounds like a summons/’ he said. ^^Pity the sorrows 
of a poor country doctor, Hermy, who can't call an evening 
his own. Well ? ” — as the door opened, revealing the startled 
face of Moll Doherty — ‘‘what is it, Molly? Mrs. Flanna- 
ghan taken bad ? ” 

“No, sir! It’s a man from Knockrea House. There’s 
been an accident, he sez. The carriage is sent for ye, sir.” 

She looked apprehensively at Hermia’s face. It turned a 
shade paler. 

“ An accident I To whom? ” she exclaimed. 

“ Shure, ma’am, an’ I’m thinkin’ it’s the masther who’s bad. 
He was shot at to-night as he was sittin’ in his own library 
chair. That’s what Riley the coachman sez.” 

“ Shot at 1 ” 

Hermia grew deadly pale. She turned impulsively to the 
doctor. 

“ Let me go with you,” she entreated. “ I may be of use. 
How fortunate that I am here.” 

He nodded. “Very well,” he said. “ I’ll be ready in a 
moment. Shot at 1 Good heavens ! what an awful thing 1 I 
thought those rascals had grown tired of outrages by now.” 

Hermia said nothing. The old housekeeper brought her 
cloak and put it round her, and kept up a running fire of 
ejaculations and condolences, but Hermia paid no heed. 

She was thinking how strange it was that in two instances 
^he had been summoned by accidents within so short a time. 
Was this to be a fatal one also ? 

The doctor bustled back, a case of instruments in his hand. 

“Courage, my child,” he said cheerfully. “Things may 
not be so bad. I hope they’ll catch the scoundrel, though. 
It is cowardly wretches like these that bring disgrace and dis- 
credit on Ireland as a nation.” 

Still Hermia was silent. 

She followed him out and entered the waiting carriage, and 
in the soft hush of the summer night they drove through the 
village and up the steep road, lying white in the starshine, to 
where Philip Marsden lay stricken and bleeding in his stately 
home, the victim of his own pride and self-sufficiency. 


144 


KITTY TEE EAG. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Hermia waited in the library while the doctor was with her 
father. A hateful half-hour of suspense passed, enlivened 
only by Mrs. Geoghagan, who persisted in giving details of 
the catastrophe, of a singularly vivid and horrifying descrip- 
tion. 

Philip Marsden had just left the dining-room and entered 
the library, and was standing by the table reading some papers 
(they lay there blood-bespattered on the same table) when a 
shot was fired at him through the open window. The footman 
had heard it, and hastened into the room to find his master 
lying prostrate across the table. 

In the hurry and confusion no one had thought of following 
or tracing the perpetrator of the deed, consequently he had 
made good his escape long before the doctor had been sum- 
moned. 

Hermia listened in sad bewilderment to this recital. ’ She 
had long known her father was unpopular, but had never im- 
agined his unpopularity would have such results. For long the 
country had been comparatively free from such outrages, 
whether committed by Ribbonmen, or Fenians. At Knockrea 
there were a few discontented rebels, but even they had satis- 
fied themselves with loud talk and public meetings, ending up 
to the satisfaction of all concerned with a general row. 

Philip Marsden had been an excellent if somewhat strict 
landlord. His property, as before said, was the finest and 
best kept in the county — a credit to the farming and the man- 
agement alike. But the people had never looked upon him as 
anything but an interloper. He belonged to the hated Saxon 
race. He had only inherited this property through his wife, 
and it is a bitter truth that the “ popular” landlord in Ireland 
is never the man who is most anxious for its welfare, or most 
earnest in improving the lands and the tenants’ condition ; for 
all this has a claim upon their industry, and is a demand on 
their rent-paying abilities. They infinitely prefer the spend- 
thrift, careless, fox-hunting, sport-loving individual, whose 
debts and general impecuniosity are the fruits of his and their 
own joint carelessness. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


145 


But Philip Marsden had been stern, cold, and a strict 
disciplinarian, neither excusing nor forgiving anything amiss 
on his lands. He would have no subdividing of plots, no 
bad or careless farming, countenance no improvident mar- 
riages, and extend no elastic limits to “rent day.” These 
virtues found small favor in the eyes of those whom they 
had really benefited, and threatening voices had of late been 
raised to warn him of the fact. 

Amidst Mrs. Geoghagan’s laments and outcries Hermia 
learned all this, and her heart grew sick with terror, for she 
knew that, even if this first attempt failed, it would be 
followed by others, and that all her father’s wealth and skill 
could never draw around him any charmed circle of safety. 

When the doctor at last appeared, his news was more re- 
assuring than they had dared to hope. The bullet had been 
extracted — it had splintered the shoulder blade, but there 
was every hope of Philip Marsden’s recovery, though one 
arm (the left) would be always affected by the accident. 
“ You may go to him if you wish,” continued Dr. Garrick 
cheerfully, as he turned the bullet over in his hand. “ I 
must keep this,” he went on, “it may serve to identify the 
murderer.” 

“He is not that — now,” said Hermia, as she turned to 
leave the room. 

“ Faith then, my child, it’s not for want of will,” 
answered the old doctor, as he dropped the messenger of 
disaster into his bag. “ Only five minutes, mind,” he 
added ; “it won’t do to excite him.” 

Hermia said nothing, but went slowly up to her father’s 
room, her heart throbbing painfully and wearily at every step. 

He was lying back on the pillows; his eyes closed, his 
face white and drawn, his whole appearance betokening ex- 
haustion and suffering. 

A strange wave of tenderness swept over Hermia’s heart 
as she gazed at him. Helpless and stricken, he appealed to 
her as he had never done before. 

She bent over him with eyes tear-filled and compassionate, 
and gently murmured her grief and horror at the lawless 
deed for which he suffered. 

He opened his eyes and looked at her, but he made no an- 
swer. Only his lips closed in a hard set line, and she saw his 
fingers clutch fiercely at the bedclothes. 

Mindful of the doctor’s injunctions, she did not disturb him 
10 


146 


KITTY THE BAG. 


further, only stooped and lightly kissed his brow. It was cold 
and damp, and she fancied he seemed to repel her touch even 
while suffering it. 

A sense of her own helplessness, of the wide distance be- 
tween them that neither time nor affection had bridged, 
came to her in that moment. Slowly and sadly she left the 
room and sent the housekeeper to him. 

‘‘Don’t you think I ought to remain?” she asked Dr. 
Carrick. “I hardly like leaving him in this critical condi- 
tion.” 

“ There is nothing to fear,” he answered. “ He will sleep, 
I am sure ; and if he keeps from fever he will be quite him- 
self in a few days. Mrs. Geoghagan can do all that is 
necessary. Of course, if you like to come to-morrow, do so, 
and stay a few days, but there is really no cause for anxiety.”. 

She slowly lifted her cloak and put it mechanically about 
her shoulders. She felt dazed and stupefied, but through it 
all was keenly conscious that she was not wanted here ; that 
her father cared nothing whether she stayed, or remained 
away. 

He had never cared much, but now it seemed to her that 
he cared nothing at all ; that the fact of her sympathy with 
these people — one of whom was his would-be murderer — 
was only another grievance to the many that had made them 
antagonists. 

She neither spoke nor moved during the drive back to the 
doctor’s. When they reached the house her own carriage 
was waiting for her, and in the dining-room Judith Mon- 
tressor and the vicar where keeping each other company, in 
great anxiety for the news that the doctor might bring. 

It was only when she caught sight of her friend’s face that 
Hermia realized how unnerved and shocked she herself was. 
The rare tears sprang to her eyes. She trembled like a leaf 
as she sank into a chair, while the doctor’s cheery voice re- 
lated the incident and described the circuit of the bullet. 

He and the vicar looked grave over so tragic an incident 
in their midst, and discussed likely perpetrators of the 
cowardly deed. As yet, of course, it was all a matter of 
speculation. The police would have to find a clue, and 
follow it up on the morrow. 

Hermia listened to them, and a vague sense of trouble and 
responsibility oppressed her. She rose at last ; she felt she 
could bear no more then. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


147 


** Come home with me,” she said imploringly to Judith, 
couldn’t bear to be alone, and I feel as if I should 
never sleep again.” 

Dr. Garrick overhearing the strained whisper turned round 
to her quickly. 

“Come, come !” he said. “You mustn’t work yourself 
into a fever over nothing. I’ll be round the first thing in 
the morning, and I’m sure I shall find him all right once 
more. Try and get a sleep, and then if you really wish 
you can go over to Knockrea in the morning, and help to 
nurse him.” 

Aside he said to Judith Montressor : “Stay with her if 
you can. She is unhinged, nervous, hysterical. The shock 
— and then, of course, the memories it must have roused — 
but you understand her; you’ll do her good.” 

And Judith, sitting beside that still, silent figure during 
the long drive back to Mount Moira, wondered greatly at 
the change, and asked herself if, after all, Hermia had been 
more deeply attached to her father than she had ever sus- 
pected. 

For her own part, Judith Montressor had always disliked 
Philip Marsden. She thought him cold, selfish and cynical; 
a man entirely occupied with his own feelings and desires. 
She knew that he cared very little for his daughter — that he 
was, in a measure, jealous of her popularity in a place where 
he had worked for the same purpose, but without the same 
success. Hermia, on her side, had spoken very rarely of 
her father to her friend, and then not in a manner to throw 
much light on their relative positions. 

When they, reached Mount Moira they went straight to 
Hermia’s own boudoir. The windows were open to the soft 
June night. A little spirit-kettle and the appliances for tea 
were laid out on a table near. 

Judith Montressor busied herself in preparing some, while 
Hermia sat moodily watching her from her low lounging 
chair. 

“ Judith,” she said suddenly, “ my father hates me. I felt 
that to-night as I have never felt it before. He would rather 
have strangers about him than me, yet I am his only child 
now.” 

“My dear Hermia, what are you saying? Hates you! 
Nonsense ! He is a cold, reserved man by nature, but that 
may not prevent his having very deep feelings.” 


148 


KITTY THE RAQ. 


** There are things one knows instinctively,” said Hermia, 

and this is one of them. I am not blaming him. Love 
can’t come at will, or at the call of duty, and I think I was 
never a lovable child. I only know I was not wanted — I 
never seemed to have any place at home, and when my 
mother died no one seemed to care what became of me.” 

Judith Montressor drew up a chair opposite her friend 
and looked compassionately at her. The little blue flame 
in the spirit-lamp wavered to and fro as the soft wind stirred 
the curtains. The water made a faint hissing noise. Her- 
mia’s eyes were on the flickering flame. It seems to her as an 
emblem of life, driven hither and thither by the wind of cir- 
cumstances. 

“An unhappy childhood is often the prelude to a happy 
after-life,” said Judith gently. “It teaches us self-reliance, 
and I think makes us value love tenfold when at last it comes 
to us.” 

“And there lies its danger!” exclaimed Hermia with 
sudden passion. “ When love comes we are greedy for it ; 
our empty hearts crave for its fulfilment. And then ” 

She broke off with a little bitter laugh. 

“ Ah, well,” she said, after a pause, “ we are too fond of 
laying the blame of our own mistakes on the shoulders of others 
who should have foreseen, or prevented them. But I think 
sometimes — and I thought again to-night — how different 
things might have been for me if I had not been so ignorant, 
so unloved when — when I needed the wisdom of a woman, 
Judith, and the shelter of a home.” 

Her face dropped suddenly on her hands. “ I cannot tell 
you more,” she said. 

“ I won’t ask it,” said Judith compassionately. “ And why 
trouble over the past, dearest ? Our mistakes are their own 
Nemesis ; in recalling them we only feel how cruel a thing life 
can be that sets our feet on the path of error, and effectually 
prevents us from retracing a false step when our judgment is 
riper.” 

“Oh, it is hard and hateful altogether!” cried Hermia 
stormily. “ What do we know — how can we judge — how can 
we even help ourselves ? Like straws on a flood we are whirled 
to our doom. Malignant demons seem for ever chanting the 
litany of our sufferings. We grope and search and pray and 
strive, and in the end we are no nearer truth or peace or con- 
viction ; at least that is my condition.” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


149 


‘'And mine too, I often think,” said Judith bitterly. “ I 
have found no comfort in priest, or Church, or prayer. ' Life 
looks like a hopeless madness sometimes. The world seems 
but a gigantic piece of machinery set agoing by unskilful hands. 
Some it tosses here and there indiscriminately, some it crushes, 
some it flings to the winds of chance. A few years of blind 
struggling, a few dark nights of anguish and regret, and then 
all is over. Our longest span of life looks in the vastness of 
what has been and is to be like the feeble flame of a candle 
blown to and fro by a passing wind, and then extinguished.” 

Hermia raised her beautiful head and looked at her. 

“Oh!” she said. “How unhappy you must have been 
once, and yet you seem content and almost happy sometimes. 
But your experience was that of marriage — mine ” 

Again she paused. She was suddenly conscious that her 
friend was looking at her as she had never looked before. 

“Was that of — love?” she whispered inquiringly. “Ah, 
poor Hermia I I wonder which was worst.” 

She rose and took the little silver kettle from its stand and 
slowly and carefully made the tea. They spoke no more un- 
til she had poured it into the cups, and brought one to Her- 
mia. 

“ Drink this,” she said. “It will calm you; and then if 
you take my advice you will go to bed. I shall be near you 
in the dressing-room. We ... we mustn’t get emotional at 
this time of night, dearest I Women are too much inclined to 
be tragic over their sorrows; men are wiser. They drown 
theirs in work — or drink.” 

There was an odd little break in her voice. She drank her 
tea with difficulty and replaced the cup. 

“Shall you go to Knockrea to-morrow?” she asked Her- 
mia suddenly. 

“Yes! I am not wanted; I am sure he dosen’t care 
whether I go or stay away, but I think it is my duty.” 

“So do I; and you have all my sympathy. I always ad- 
mire people who have the courage to perform unpleasant 
duties; perhaps because 1 lack that courage myself.” 

“I should think you would never shrink from one if you 
thought it right.” 

“ Ah ! Hermia, even the worst of us try to make the best 
of ourselves to the people we care for. I won’t rob you of 
your illusion respecting me yet,” 


150 


KITTY THE BAQ. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Hermia slept but badly that night. 

It was strange how vividly this accident to her father had 
recalled the catastrophe which had widowed herself ; strange 
how Ellingsworth’s face haunted her through the fevered, 
sleepless hours that followed her conversation with Judith 
Montressor. 

Toward morning she fell into a heavy sleep, from which 
she was aroused by the entrance of her maid with her morn- 
ing tea and letters. 

Among the latter was a short note from Dr. Carrick, left 
by hand, and giving a very favorable report of her father’s 
condition. 

She rose and dressed, and went into the morning-room for 
breakfast. Judith was already there. 

Hermia told her of the doctor’s note and the good news. 

Still, I think I will stay there for a couple of days,” she 
added. 

*‘I wonder who could have done it,” said Judith Mon- 
tressor thoughtfully. Perhaps when you are on the spot you 
will be able to learn something. Was there any special person 
who owed him a grudge? ” 

<<None that I ever heard of,” answered Hermia. <<He is 
not what one calls popular, still I had no idea that there was 
anything like disaffection among the tenants.” 

<*Howdo you know it was one of the tenants?” asked 
Judith Montressor. 

Hermia looked at her quickly. ‘‘ Why, who else could it 
be ? ” she exclaimed. 

Oh ! he may have enemies that we know nothing about,” 
said her friend. 

** No one who would try to take his life, I am sure,” said 
Hermia, as she seated herself at the table and poured out the 
coffee. 

<‘Iwas thinking,” said Judith, about that child. You 
were not here, you know, and so you are not aware of the 
amount of gossip to which her visit at the house gave rise.” 


KITTY THE BAG, 


151 


Lady Ellingsworth’s fair face grew suddenly warm. Peo- 
ple are very ill-natured,” she said. But I can see no reason, 
Judith, to associate that freak of my father’s with this attempt 
on his life.” 

Judith said no more. It was a delicate subject, and she did 
not care to tell Hermia of the very uncharitable surmises it had 
occasioned in the neighborhood. 

They finished their meal in comparative silence. Hermia 
was feeling miserably depressed and unhinged. 

This catastrophe had upset all the peace and tranquillity 
of the past few months ; had brought her face to face once 
more with that worst side of Irish character, which she had 
done her best to ignore or excuse. She could no longer do 
either. 

Her father had been right after all. No amount of bene- 
fits rendered could in any way atone to these irrational beings 
for interference with time-honored customs. He was hated 
by the improvident tenants, the wandering beggars, the lazy, 
indolent and discontented ruffians whose chief object in life 
was to stir up riot and dissension wherever they could. He 
was the model landlord of the county, therefore the most un- 
popular one. 

Still, Hermia had never heard of any special act of harsh- 
ness on his part ; certainly of nothing that merited so treach- 
erous and dastardly a revenge. 

It was a hateful thought that the assassin might be lurking 
in their very village; might, if undiscovered, again repeat 
his attempt. 

When breakfast was finished she drove her friend back in 
the pony carriage and then went on through the village. It 
was all astir, and groups were scattered about evidently dis- 
cussing the previous night’s catastrophe. They drew aside and 
saluted her respectfully as she drove past. Murmurs of sym- 
pathy and good will followed her. 

Among one group Jim Maguire, dirty and slovenly as ever, 
was holding forth in his usual revolutionary language. He did 
not subdue it even out of respect for Lady Ellingsworth. 

The policeman was walking along with a new briskness and 
alertness, born of the consciousness of importance and the re- 
cent information that a reward was offered for the discovery or 
apprehension of the assassin. 

It was not at all unlikely that that very assassin was 
loitering about and listening to the discussion, or standing, 


152 


KITTY THE BAG. 


pipe in mouth, before the village ‘Mock-up” reading that 
notice. 

These little incidents just serve to keep things going in 
Ireland. 

When Hermia arrived at the house she was told her father 
had just sunk off to sleep, after being awake since daybreak. 
She did not, therefore, enter the sick room. Her own 
chamber had been prepared by Mrs. Geoghagan’s instruc- 
tions, and thither she went to await any further message or 
news of the sufferer. 

The hours passed slowly and heavily. She found it impos- 
sible to settle down to anything. 

From time to time rings and inquiries came, as the news 
spread througliout the neighborhood, and fearful of the noise 
disturbing her father, she at last went down and ordered the 
hall door to be left open, and the footman to remain in the hall 
to answer any summons. 

In the afternoon Dr. Garrick came again and saw his patient. 
He told him of Hermia’s arrival, and her intention to stay till 
he was quite out of danger, but Philip Marsden never ex- 
pressed any desire to see her. 

The doctor was puzzled. This coldness and indifference 
were so marked that he surmised there must be some reason 
for them. It pained him to see Hermia’s anxious face and 
hear her eager inquiry : “ Did he ask for me ? ” 

“ He will be pleased to see you for a few moments,” he an- 
swered evasively. “ But do not expect him to speak much. 
He is weaker than I imagined.” 

Hermia promised readily. She felt humiliatingly conscious 
that her presence here was not welcome — or, indeed, desired. 
The relations between her father and herself had never seemed 
so strained as now. 

Her nervousness made her seem colder and prouder than 
ever, as she at last went into that silent room with its faint 
smell of ether and lavender water — its carefully excluded light, 
and its paraphernalia of bandages, and medicine bottles and 
glasses. 

“You are better, father? . . . I am so glad,” she said 

gently, as she stood beside him. “ I have come to stay here a 
little while, and give Mrs. Geoghagan a rest.” 

He opened his eyes and looked at her. 

In her soft, plainly-cut black gown, and white collar and 
cuffs, she looked almost like a nun, or a nursing sister, “I 


KITTY THE RAG. 


153 


hope you appreciate your friends now!'' he said bitterly. 
“Cowardly brutes! They shall suffer for this if I can dis- 
cover them. But I believe the police are in league with half 
the criminals in this country. I’ve offered ^£200 reward. I’d 
double it if I thought there was any chance of catching the 
rascal.” 

“ Have you no suspicion yourself, father? ” she asked. “ Is 
there any one you have offended, or dismissed?” 

“ I believe it’s that impudent scoundrel Jim Maguire,” 
he answered. “ I’ve said he was a disgrace to the place. An 
idle loafing vagabond, with his mouth full of treason and 
abuse, prating of wrongs and injustice to all who’ll listen. I 
have given him a piece of my mind more than once.” 

Hermia paled suddenly. She knew — none better — how lit- 
tle the Maguires had had to thank Knockrea House for. How 
bitter it must have been to see family, name, and possessions 
slipping from improvident grasps, and strangers set in the place 
of those whose blood ran in their own veins. 

“Oh, Jim wouldn’t have done such a thing! ” she cried. 
“I am sure of it.” 

“You do well to stick up for the family,” sneered Philip 
Marsden as he turned his head away. “ But we have always 
held contrary opinions as to their merits. I am not likely to 
change mine now.” 

She made no reply, only moved across to the window and 
altered the light to suit his eyes. Then she took a low chair 
beside it, and occupied herself with some knitting. Her 
father lay there with closed eyes. She thought he had fallen 
asleep. 

The occupation that kept her fingers busy left her thoughts 
free. His last words had seriously disturbed her. She knew 
that Jim Maguire did not bear the best of characters, that for 
years he had been slowly and steadily deteriorating ; but she 
could not believe he would ever sink to the level of a secret 
assassin. Still, that her father should suspect him made her 
uneasy. He had doubtless mentioned that suspicion to others 
beside herself, and Jim would be watched in the future — a 
proceeding which would not improve his temper or alter his 
opinions. 

As she knitted on there in the darkened room, she seemed 
to see fresh troubles opening out before them. Disaffection 
and discontent spread rapidly iil a community, especially 
when their grievances find no sympathy, and neither their 


154 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


hearts nor their words are understood by those in authority 
over them. 

She knew that the bodies and souls of his laborers and tenants 
were of small value in her father’s eyes. He only wanted to 
get as much out of them as was equivalent to the wages he 
paid, or the terms on which they occupied his farms. 

Charity or pity he had none. Always a hard man when his 
own interests were concerned, he had grown harder and more 
callous as the years went on. 

This present catastrophe, moreover, indicated a distinct 
phase of unpopularity, and alarmed her for his future safety. 

Ignorance makes slaves, but even ignorance cannot keep 
their eyes for ever bandaged, and it had struck Lady Ellings- 
worth of late that the peasantry and tenant-farmers were con- 
siderably more wide-awake than of yore. The difference be- 
tween flowers and weeds is the difference of culture. The same 
sun shines on both, the same soil produces them, yet one is 
thrown aside as useless, and the other is nurtured and tended 
to its utmost perfection. 

Many black and bitter years of tyranny and un progression 
had made Ireland the pitiable thing she was. It seemed no 
one’s province — or in no one’s power — to help her to a 
healthier state. And brooding over wrongs is a dangerous 
pastime. 

Hermia, who understood those people better than her father, 
longed to tell him that it is such as he who dig the grave of 
their own order, but as she looked at the face on the pillows 
set in cold and pitiless defiance she felt it would be useless and 
hopeless. 

Light hearts and heavy labor are not always aliens, but it 
takes a wise master to keep the one in touch with the other — 
to yoke them in joint harness — and get the maximum of results 
at the minimum of cost. 

And such a master was not Philip Marsden. 


KITTY THE BAG, 


155 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Philip Marsden recovered rapidly, and was soon able to 
leave his room and go downstairs again. 

His illness, however, had had a very bad effect on his never 
too genial temper. He had grown morose, bitter, and, at 
times, almost violent. He inveighed against Ireland and the 
Irish with the utmost virulence. His long-cherished resent- 
ment against the poorer and more troublesome classes burst 
out now with ungovernable fury. 

He sent graphic descriptions of the turbulent state of the 
district to the authorities, and spared no expense in his en- 
deavors to discover the perpetrators of the outrage on himself. 

After the lapse of a fortnight, not the slightest clue had 
been found, and this angered him all the more. 

It was useless now for Hermia to preach a policy of temper- 
ance. He declared he would have a Celtic clearance ” on 
the estate, and only let his land to English tenants, or dispose 
of the whole property and go back to England. 

This, however, was an idle threat. He was too closely as- 
sociated with Knockrea — too proud of his own improvements 
on the “ model property ” to desert it now. 

Besides, he had elaborated a future scheme of vengeance 
connected with it, as yet known only to himself. He could 
not afford to forego that, just as matters were ripening for its 
completion. 

Hermia returned to her own home at the end of the week. 
She felt she had never valued independence so thoroughly as 
now when she could turn her back on that discontented cynic, 
and take up her own life, and live it as best pleased herself. 

She, at least, had no fear of the people — no hesitation in 
going among them, scolding, aiding, or compassionating as 
they needed. 

On the night of her return, as she sat reading in her favor- 
ite room, she was informed that a woman wished to speak to 
her — a woman who refused to give her name. 

She looks like a beggar, my lady,” concluded the servant. 

Show her up,” said Hermia, whose pensioners were in- 


156 


KITTY THE BAG, 


numerable, and who rarely sent any one away without seeing 
them. In a few moments a strange little figure sidled into the 
boudoir, her small, weird face peering out through the dingy 
folds of a red shawl. 

Hermia recognized her instantly as the Red Hen. Why, 
Molly,” she said, “ is it you ? I have been wondering where 
you were all this time. You have never been to see me since 
I returned to Ireland.” 

“ God save ye, me lady, and that’s the thruth. It’s a quare 
thing altogether, but I nivir knew ye was here at all. Och ! 
’twas the tears of thankfulness came into me eyes win I heard 
it. And only yesterday — and me returnin’ from me travels — 
and a dacint-looking woman, dressed quite respectably and 
standin’ at the Maguires’ door, she sez to me : ‘ Truth, thin, 
Molly, it is yourself come back to Knockrea ? ’ sez she ; and 
I looked hard at her, me sight not being as good as it was, 
and shure ’twas Biddy Maguire herself, but that worn and 
thin, and her hair white as snow, the crathur. But for the 
voice av her. I’d nivir have known her. ‘ Will ye come in 
and sit down?’ she sez. And av course I did, and ’twas 
herself told me the news — how ye was here living at the 
Mount, and that Mr. Marsden had been shot at through the 
windy av his own room, and, faix, she was cryin’ her own 
two eyes out wid trouble, poor sowl.” 

“ Trouble ! ” said Hermia, “ what has happened to her? ” 

** Ah, ma’am, shure ’tis that thafe o’ the wurrld, her own 
man, that’s worrying the crathur — nivir sober, and divil a bit 
o’ good, and mixed up wid a lot o’ murdherin’ blasphemin’ 
blayguards — ’tis prison they’ll land in — Jim at the head o’ 
thim. Ah, wisha ! but a bad husband’s worse than none at 
all. I’d as soon be a tinker’s donkey as the slave av a drunken 
idle omadhaun like Jim Maguire. Ah ! me lady, ’tis always 
the man brings the trouble on wimmin. The blessed Lord knows 
best why He made thim. Tanglin’ the skins it is, and thin 
givin’ thim to us to unravel, and not as much as < thank ye ’ 
for doin’ it.” 

“ Is Jim really so bad ? ” asked Hermia. 

<‘Faix, ma’am, ’twould go hard to find his equal, an ’tis a 
rope I see for his endin’ if he’s not after mendin’ his ways. 
But how’s yerself, me lady ? Shure, ’tis forgettin’ me manners 
I am ! Ah ! ’tis sore trouble I read on the face of ye ; but 
’,tis trouble brought ye back to Ireland, and that I’m thankful 
for, and many another av us in the parish, me lady.” 


KITTY THE RAG. 


157 


And I’m glad to be back, in spite of the trouble, Molly.” 

She sighed heavily, and the little keen eyes gave a quick 
glance at her face. “ Ah, wisha, wisha ! and there’s more to fol- 
low ! ” she said, rocking herself to and fro. “Black and 
bitter days — I see them cornin’ ! ” 

“You mustn’t prophesy anymore evil, Molly,” said Hermia 
with a faint smile. “It is sufficient when it comes, without 
anticipating its advent. And now,” she added, “ go down to 
the kitchen and have a good meal ; and here’s something to 
buy yourself tobacco,” as she slipped half a sovereign into the 
old crone’s hand. 

The Red Hen caught the glitter of gold, and paused on the 
threshold to bless her — including in the voluble benediction 
all her relatives and belongings. Then she retreated to the 
kitchen regions to gather and retail gossip such as her soul 
loved, while Hermia returned to her book. 

But the story had lost interest. Her thoughts were far away 
from the meaning of the words on which her eyes rested. 
She tossed the volume impatiently aside and went over to the 
window. 

The night was hot and windless, the sky brilliant with star- 
shine. 

Air and sky and earth had all the subtle tempting of beauty, 
all the magic that Nature lends its summer time. It was a 
night to stir vague impulses, and waken vague regrets. A 
night when memory breathes the perfume of past joys to one 
who has known love’s passion and love’s pain — a night to 
make one infinitely sad, or infinitely happy. 

To Hermia it seemed as if a sudden wave of memory broke 
across her long enforced calm. Wild thoughts, like a torrent 
unloosed, swept over her brain, and once more^ youth and hope 
and love were hers — the frenzied passion of Juliet — the sorrow 
of Heldise — the despair of Francesca. Philosophy was en- 
gulfed, reason ceased to ply its sophistries. She only felt she 
was a woman before whom stretched a loveless, barren fate, 
and in whose heart burned the inextinguishable fires of a love, 
tragic and un forgotten, and unforgettable. 

She lifted her head and gazed out to where the moonlight 
rested on the crest of the sloping hills, and silvered the ruins 
of the old abbey. How fair and sweet and calm lay the 
earth, asleep upon the breast of night. As she gazed, her 
heart seemed filled with the pent-up sorrow of years. All 
emotion suddenly culminated in one wild burst of sorrow. 


168 


KITTY THE It AG. 


The tears streamed helplessly down her face — a wave of in- 
tense misery swept over her. 

The one feeling of which she was most keenly conscious 
was that of physical agony — the sense of some burden too 
heavy to bear — the utter impossibility of bearing it any 
longer. Her heart seeined to stand still, then suddenly break 
into loud and labored beats, every one of which was a pain in 
itself. 

She leant against the window, trembling and weeping, with 
a momentary sense of that utter aloofness from every other 
individual sympathy which a great grief alone can bring. 

Suddenly she ceased to sob. Her hands fell from her face. 
She passed swiftly into the adjoining dressing-room, and took 
a dark cloak from the wardrobe and drew the hood around 
her face. Then she went downstairs with the same nervous 
haste, and through the dim-lit drawing-room and out by the 
open window into the grounds. Traversing them rapidly, she 
came to a small iron gate leading out to a road. Trees, in 
their • full summer foliage, bordered it on either side. It lay 
white and silent in the moonlight, sloping gently upwards, and 
skirting the base of a further hill crowned by the ruins of 
that old abbey where she had first seen Kitty the Rag. 

Hermia climbed the slope and stood at the entrance of the 
cloisters. The moonlight shone clear and soft, and lit up the 
carved stonework, the broken arches ; and, farther off, the 
humble graves and rude headstones of the ancient church- 
yard. 

It was a desolate spot, even in its summer beauty, but Her- 
mia cared nothing for its desolation. She had sped there on 
the wings of impulse, to keep tryst with a dead self and a dead 
memory. 

i She was a young woman still — a beautiful woman still — and 
yet she knew to-night, as she stood in this lonely spot sur- 
rounded only by ghosts of her dead youth, that she had tasted 
all the sweets and all the bitterness of life — had touched the 
heights of folly, and sunk to the depths of woe. 

She sank down on one of the fallen blocks of stone, and, 
drawing her cloak around her, gave herself up for once to the 
full and terrible luxury of utter self-abandonment. Scene by 
scene, step by step, she followed her own girlhood through 
that sweet and tangled maze which love had glorified into a 
Promised Land. 

Its madness, its briefness, its breath of hot passion, its ter- 


mTTY T^E EAQ, 15§ 

rible awakening — all these, in varied images of despair, swept 
across her vision. 

Time had ceased to exist. Life for to-night had reached a 
standpoint where the immediate moment held all that had any 
conscious meaning. She thought of no ‘‘to-morrow.” The 
storm-gusts of feeling long crushed by the exigencies of the 
world, and the demands of existence, swept on and on un- 
checked. 

“ This hour is mine,” said Memory . . . and Sorrow 

gave it up with that sense of tension strained to breaking- 
point, that is at once the hardest and crudest test life gives to 
feeling. 

A dark solitary figure, with bowed head bent down on shud- 
dering arms, she sat there alone with grief — the human embod- 
iment of wasted passion and vain regrets. 

From time to time a hoarse sob broke from her, but she 
could not weep easily or freely as some women can. 

There are miseries which suffocate us by their own intensity. 
There are moments when Nature exacts the uttermost farthing 
of its vengeance on our own long denial of its demands, and 
such a memory was this in Hermia Ellingsworth’s life. A 
moment fraught with agony, such as breaks poor human hearts, 
or makes them only long to “curse God, and die.” 

How long or short a time had passed she could not have 
told, when amidst the sense of her agony and desolation there 
came to her some consciousness of a touch on her shoulder, a 
voice, sad and full of wondering compassion, sounding in her 
ear. 

“My poor woman,” it said, “what is your grief? Can 
you not lay it at the foot of the Cross ? Believe me there is 
peace there, and consolation.” 

I The voice — full of noble intonations, rich with the music 
of tender human sympathy — woke in her heart some wander- 
ing echo. She drew her cloak more closely round her. The 
blood in her veins seemed suddenly to grow chill with a terri- 
ble dread. 

“ Who . . . who are you? ” she gasped hoarsely. 

“I am an unworthy servant in God’s service,” said the 
voice. “To those who suffer and sorrow here I bear a mes- 
sage of hope. I point out the goal of glory at the end of the 
path of suffering. I say even as my Master said : ‘ Be not 

afraid . . . neither do I condemn thee ... go and 

sin no more.’ ” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


leo 

She listened, still bound in that icy chain of wonder and of 
a dread more terrible still. 

What — who was this speaking to her — with the voice of the 
dead and the authority of the living ? 

She lifted her head, her hand pushed back the shrouding 
hood and it fell upon her shoulders. The moon’s rays shone 
full on the marble contour of her face, white and rigid almost 
as that of death. Her great eyes, in which the tears still 
stood, gazed up at the noble pitying face bent down to her as 
to a stranger, suffering and in need. 

“My God!” she whispered. “It cannot be you — Eu- 
gene 1 ” 

He sprang aside as if a shot had struck him. There was 
horror and wonder in his face, and something like a terrible 
joy, long starved of hope. 

She rose unsteadily, and they stood facing each other under 
the quiet light of moon and stars in this resting-place of the 
dead. 

Words struggled to the lips of the young priest, but found 
no channel of utterance. 

What could he say ? What could any human speech con- 
vey in such a moment? All that these past years had held of 
misery and remorse — of guilty sorrow hidden from the world 
— of agony and repentance — of pleading to the Great Un- 
known Power we dimly worship as the Creator of human bliss 
and woe, all these feelings and emotions and memories rushed 
over these two agonized hearts. 

And in some blind helpless way they knew that Fate had 
brought them thither, to fill up, as it were, the measure of a 
grief already full to overflowing. 

The woman spoke first. 

^ “It is you — Eugene — really you ? You are not dead ? ” 

“lam dead to all that once made life,” he cried, the words 
breaking forth in a hoarse whisper. “ And you — you have 
returned. You have come back here, Hermia?” 

“ Yes,” she said. “ Does the choice seem strange? They 
say a murderer is drawn back by an invisible force to the place 
of his crime. Perhaps I, in like manner, have been drawn 
back to the place of my dead youth.” 

He shuddered as if a cold wind had swept over him. 

“ Why speak of it? ” he said brokenly. “Was it my fault 
altogether, Hermia?” 


KITTY THE HAQ. 


161 


“ No, I was fully as guilty — if guilt there was. . . . You 
didn’t know all — Eugene.” 

^*Alir' he said, meeting her eyes with a look of dawning 
terror. ‘MVhat more was there to know, Hermia, than dis- 
covery and banishment and knowledge of the wrong done? ” 

‘‘There was — something more,” she said. “Something 
you — you should have thought of, Eugene. What did I know ? 
What could I, a girl of sixteen years, guess or think of conse- 
quences — of the future ? ” 

“ Hermia ! ” he cried, and the blood leaped from his frozen 
heart to his white face, and tingled in every vein, that had 
striven to deny the rights and obligations of manhood for long 
and bitter years. 

“It . . . died,” she said faintly, “and I thought I 

should follow it. But heaven was not so merciful, Eugene. I 
lived on ... I had a hard taskmaster over me — and the 
lash was not spared. But our secret is still our secret. No 
one ever knew . . . no one need ever know — now.” 

“ And you — married ? ” 

“ I was forced to do so. My father set it as the seal to that 
bond of silence. I married — and — I lost my husband a year 
ago.” 

His eyes flashed as if with sudden relief. 

“ And you came back here ? ” 

“ I cannot rest away from this place, and these people,” she 
said. “They hold my heart and my memory. But you, Eu- 
gene — what made you a priest, and why are you also in this 
place ? ’ ’ 

“lam not here, I am staying in Limerick,” he said. “ But 
I was sent over to the next parish on a matter of business, and 
I found I could not return to Limerick till to-morrow. I have 
just come from the sick bed of a dying man, and I could not 
resist the longing to visit this spot. I walked across the grave- 
yard yonder and saw a woman sitting there — alone with sor- 
row. I thought I might comfort her. . . . How could I 

have guessed what woman, of all the many this wide earth 
holds, would face me once again ? ” 

They stood and gazed at each other in the helpless misery 
of a hopeless grief. Something sadder than tears in the eyes 
that asked of each soul its secret, knowing that no veil could 
hide it in the self-abandonment of such an hour. 

It was not love they read, it was not love they feared; it 
was the havoc of youth’s mad passion, and the terrible conse- 
11 


m 


KITTY THE EAG. 


quence of youth’s mad impulses that looked back from the 
wreck of past years, and faintly cried its unspeakable misery 
to each listening heart. 

They had not touched hands. They had not, by so much 
as a step, lessened the distance between them. But all the 
same the memory of what had been, clasped them in a wild 
embrace — held them in a passionate bondage. 

His eyes released hers first. 

Long years of discipline came to his rescue, and all the 
forces of checked and martyred feeling rose in shocked array 
at a purely human impulse. 

His hands, icy cold as death, clasped themselves under his 
priest’s habit, the nails biting into the flesh in pure uncon- 
sciousness. He had passed beyond mere physical pain in this 
moment. 

Backward, step by step, he retraced the joys and sorrows of 
the past. But the mask of self-effacement was now upon his 
face. It revealed nothing to her searching, questioning gaze. 

Eugene,” she breathed rather than spoke, “has this life 
brought you peace ? ’ ’ 

The death-like pallor of his face changed ever so slightly at 
her voice. 

“I cannot lie to you,” he said. “You, my other self — you 
who taught me the full and perfect meaning of life. No, 
Hermia ... I have not found peace. Neither torture, 
nor self-renunciation, nor fruitless effort has given it me. Some- 
times I cheat myself into thinking I have found it, but it is 
but a dream from which I waken, my heart still full of throb- 
bing misery, of vain remorse.” 

“The sin was mutual,” she said faintly. “Do not blame 
yourself so harshly, Eugene.” 

The sudden helpless tears dimmed her eyes. Who, to have 
seen her now, would have recognized the proud and stately 
society belle — the cold and self-controlled woman of the 
world ? 

“Oh,” he entreated, “do not weep ... it unmans 
me. Has life not taught you to forget — to console yourself? ” 

“Life,” she said bitterly, “ has taught me just as much as 
your Church has taught you, Eugene.” 

“Despair!” he cried; “nothing but despair! Has God 
no mercy ? Must all life be poisoned for sake of one error ? ” 

“There are not many men,” she said, “who would take 
such a sin to heart as you have taken it. I have forgiven you 


KITTY THE EAQ. 


163 


. . . long — long ago. Can that not help you to find peace 

with Him you serve ? ” 

He bent his head. 

“It is the first grain of comfort in all these bitter years,” 
he said. “I never thought to hear your voice speak such 
words. But none the less is my soul polluted and defiled — 
none the less do I fear to stand in the face of others and 
preach to them, knowing the blackness of the sin I carry 
within me.” 

“And yet,” she said, “I carried mine in the face of the 
world, and smiled upon it as an innocent woman. Oh ! 
Eugene, why torment yourself? There are thousands of sin- 
ners worse than you who hold their heads high and in honor 
among their fellowmen. Are not even the ranks of the 
Church filled with the selfish, the vain, the adulterer and the 
hypocrite? ” 

“The sins of all the world,” he said, “cannot lessen the 
weight or the responsibility of our own. The fact of a thou- 
sand past murders does not afford exemption to the murderer 
of to-day for his own crime. No, Hermia ; speak not to me 
of comfort or forgetfulness. Have I not another sin to bear 
from this night forward in the knowledge of the innocent life 
we martyred ? ’ ’ 

“It was better that it should not have lived,” she said 
brokenly. “ Surely you see that now, Eugene? Think of me 
— a mere girl — ruined — forsaken — shamed ... at the mercy 
of one so hard and unpitying as my father. Oh ! ... if you 
only knew how I thanked heaven, when my agony and proba- 
tion were over, that I had not that most awf^ul burden to bear.” 

“ If I had known ! ” he almost groaned. “If I had only 
known ! ” 

» “You could have done nothing,” she said. “You were 
banished. . . . Then they told me you never reached America; 
that the vessel went down with every soul on board. You 
made no sign all these long years. Even your mother believes 
you dead.” 

“ My mother ! God bless her patient heart ! I may per- 
haps be allowed to comfort her at last. I was ordained in 
Canada, then sent back here to Limerick. Father Dillon, who 
knew my story, died three years ago. I belong to the Order 
of St. Francis. They send me to various places to preach ; it 
is not unlikely I may do so at Knockrea before long. My 
mother is still here, is she not? ” 


164 


KITTY THE BAO. 


** Yes. She travels about as of old from place to place." 

“ When I crossed over to Kingstown,” he went on hurriedly, 

I had for fellow-passenger a child who told me she lived with 
my mother ; that she had adopted her. She said also that Mr. 
Marsden was having her educated in England. It seemed to 
me very strange. Who was the child, Hermia? and why does 
your father interest himself in her?” 

“ That I cannot tell. It has puzzled me often.” 

“It is quite true, then ? ” 

“ Yes. The child is somewhat of a mystery ; but she is so 
beautiful and so clever that I do not wonder at the interest she 
creates.” 

He was silent for a few moments. 

“The hand of Fate has guided me here,” he murmured 
absently. “ Events are but links in the chain that binds one 
human destiny to another. This meeting even ” 

“Yes,” she said. “ Who would have thought it possible?” 

In her own heart she was saying that if she could have lain 
down on the grass at his feet and died there, she would gladly 
have done it. What could life mean for her any more save 
the torture of vain longing; save a new sense of alienation 
from every joy or peace that other hearts might know — but 
never — never hers ! 


KITTY THE BAG, 


165 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A DARK cloud veiled the face of the moon. Its shadow fell 
upon the two figures standing amongst the straggling grasses — 
the broken fragments of the ruins. So, too, were their own 
lives broken and in ruins about them. 

The young priest lifted his head and gazed long and sorrow- 
fully at the beautiful, sad face before him. Then suddenly he 
sank on his knees at her feet, and clasped her hands and bent 
his cold, damp brow upon them in speechless agony. 

She looked down at him, and her lip quivered: ‘*Ah, 
Eugene!” she cried, ‘‘God has punished us enough, seeing 
that we are for ever parted by your own choice.” 

“ It was my choice,” he said. “ Truly, willingly I gave 
myself up to God. What was this wretched gift we call life to 
me ? But vainly have I sought peace, or the assurance of for- 
giveness. The face of heaven seems ever to frown upon me.” 

Her weary sigh echoed his own. In her own heart she 
secretly envied a faith that could assure itself of a heaven, or an 
ideal forgiveness. “ Being your choice,” she went on gently, 
“ you must have counted the cost — you know all it means? ” 

“ I know,” he answered. 

“Then,” she said, in the same coldly gentle way, “after 
to-night the past must be for both of us a sealed book — for 
ever put away from sight. All has been said that need be said. 
Between that past and the future life sets this brief meeting 
ground on which we stand for a little space. But when we 
leave it, Eugene . . . pray the God in whom you believe 
that we meet — never again. For a woman’s strength is only 
as great as her love . . . and I — I have never ceased to love 
you, Eugene.” 

He dropped her hands and staggered to his feet. He felt 
like a man blind and drunk in the midst of a sudden glory. 
All the sweetness and sorcery of the past were back with him 
again — all the empty, lonely years forgotten. 

“ Oh, Hermia ! ” he cried breathlessly, “ do not look at me 
with those entreating eyes. The heart of a man still beats in 
my breast . . . unchilled by the ice of asceticism. For- 
getfulness was impossible before . . . what will it be 


166 


KITTY THE BAG. 


now? Even our sin has a consecration of its own, since 
neither time nor absence has turned aside its memory.” 

“ Nor ever will, Eugene,” she said, nor ever will.” 

He thought to himself that the heaviest penance he might 
inflict would cheaply purchase the joy of this strange moment 
— the knowledge of so faithful a love. 

He trembled so that he could not stand. Imploringly he 
stretched out his hands to her, and, as if comprehending his 
prayer and his weakness, she came to his side, and suffered 
him to draw her down on the broken stone that had been her 
seat when he found her. 

Soft, filmy clouds still swept across the brilliance of the sky. 
The hush and stillness of the night was like a spell in that 
place of human memories, and of human woe. 

Side by side they rested in the charmed peace of the summer 
night, and the wooing wind swept by their tear-wet cheeks, 
and seemed to bid them take comfort in their love, since 
neither God nor man could teach them to forget. 

She rested against his heart, her frame shaken with heavy 
weeping, for the tempest of her tears had broken forth at last, 
and nature, too long outraged of its rights, took vengeance of 
its debt to the uttermost farthing. 

His own eyes were dim with sympathy. All he had suffered 
and mourned and foregone came back to his memory in one 
swift flash, as they say the memory of their lives comes to the 
drowning. 

**It is worse than death,” he said hoarsely. <^Oh, peace 
— peace, my beloved . . . these sobs rack me. Alas ! 

What ruin is ours ! . . . What suffering have I given you 

to bear ! ” 

With a supreme effort she controlled her grief, and lifted 
her head from his breast. 

‘‘The judgment of heaven is heavy upon us,” she said. 
“Comfort me, if you can, Eugene . . . speak of the 

hopes to which you cling — the Cross at the foot of which you 
lay down your burdens.” 

“ Ah, my heart!” he cried passionately, “that I could 
comfort you ! But I am weak and sinful — I cannot teach you 
what I have not learnt myself. I threw myself into this life 
hoping to flee from the sins and temptations of the world. I 
had vowed, Hermia, that no woman should ever be to me any- 
thing but a cold impersonal shadow. Love and joy, and all 
the sweet follies Qf youth, were over for ever. For a time it 


KITTY THE BAG, 


167 


seemed as if I had found peace. I gave up my miserable 
secret and was assured of pardon. Nothing was too hard for 
me ; no penance too severe, no task too arduous. They told 
me I had the power of swaying other hearts by the sorrows of 
my own — of drawing other souls to that Cross to which I 
cling with all my strength. I seemed to throw off all the re- 
sponsibilities of self as a grievous burden. In love for God 
and zeal in the service of the Church I found my only com- 
fort. Then came the mandate for my return here, and I 
trembled to think of all it would recall. I learnt that you had 
long left — had married and gone to England ; and none recog- 
nized me, Hermia. My name— myself, were alike changed. 
The exercise of my office was confined to another district, as 
I told you. I have not set foot in my birthplace till to-day.” 

She had ceased to weep. Her eyes were gazing at the 
ruined abbey, and through the ivied spaces where ever and 
anon the moonlight threw fantastic shadows. She felt she 
could have listened for ever to the music of that beautiful 
voice. Its tenderness and sweetness fell on her parched and 
fevered heart as rain falls on the thirsty ground. 

He sighed heavily again. ^‘I wonder,” he said, **that 
you knew me, Hermia.” 

‘*1 knew your voice,” she answered. ^^If you had not 
spoken, I might not have recognized you so quickly; but your 
voice, Eugene ! I think if I were dead its sound would call 
me back to life.” 

He shivered as if with sudden cold. He knew he had no 
right to listen to words like these — to palter with temptation ; 
and yet the old miserable sense of weakness was so strong. 
Like an unfaithful sentinel, he stood before the citadel of his 
soul — parleying with, instead of repulsing, the foe. 

She had withdrawn herself from his arms when the passion 
of her sobs was at last exhausted. She knew they must part, 
but she clung desperately to every moment that still held him 
by her side. 

After to-night life would be over. There was neither plea 
nor excuse for any future meeting. 

Some wild idea crossed her of adopting his faith — of throw- 
ing herself, as he had done, into the safety and seclusion of 
the Church and its sanctuaries. But the strength and activity 
of her mind shrank back from the perjury such a course of 
action would entail. She was not of the stuff that makes 
meek converts and pious sisterhoods ; abnegating the rights of 


168 


KITTY THE RAG. 


womanhood for an ideal. Her intellect and her heart alike 
rebelled against the slavish submission that the Romish Church 
exacts, and on which its supremacy is founded. She marvelled 
that he could have bent his neck to such a yoke — though she 
remembered his training, and could picture the force brought 
to bear upon him at the most critical juncture of his life. 

No, plainly this door was closed against her. She must 
fight down her sorrow by other means than he had selected to 
conquer his. 

Shame and despair swept over her once more. She rose 
and faced him as one faces one’s self-wrought doom — calm 
with the calmness of ended hope. 

“There is no more to say,” she cried faintly, “and . . . 
and it is late — I must go now, Eugene.” 

He too rose, and gazed long and sadly at her beautiful face 
. — beautiful even after that wild storm of grief. 

He had rightly said that under the priest’s garb beat still 
the man’s heart. He could have laughed aloud as he thought 
of the futility of those years of penance and self-denial, that 
battling with the memories of sin or the tempting of it. 

All vain — all useless ; straws that had snapped in the fire of 
this unholy joy — thistledown upon the winds of chance that 
had made effort a mockery. 

“Yes,” he sighed rather than said, “we must both go our 
separate ways. Life has nothing in common for us henceforth, 
save an endless regret.” 

“And an endless memory.” 

For one instant he turned his head as if he could not bear 
to look upon her face. 

“ God have mercy upon us both,” he murmured. “If we 
have sinned, in like manner we have suffered. . . . He, 

knowing all, may pity us and send us peace at last.” 

“ The peace of death, Eugene,” she said. “ None other 
is possible, since the same world holds us for ever divided.” 

“ His will be done,” said the young priest as he crossed his 
hands upon his breast and once more bent his uncovered head 
in momentary reverence. His lips moved in voiceless prayer. 
The force of habit again reasserted itself, and held him aloof 
and apart from any personal considerations while his soul 
soared into self-regulated channels of an assured and assertive 
faith. 

Sadly she watched him, recognizing with keen pain not 
only the alteration of years but the alteration of his accepted 


KITTY THE BAG, 


169 


vocation — the bent form, the worn and sallow cheek, the eye 
so feverishly bright — these things hurt her more even than that 
unfamiliar garb which clothed him. 

Yet she saw plainly that there was no affectation of religious 
feeling about him. His temperament was as devotional as his 
life, and suited to it both by stress of mind and habit. The 
hardships and restrictions of his order were unfelt by one whose 
soul only longed for pardon at cost of any sacrifice of life. 

As his prayer ceased he lifted his head and looked at her 
once more. 

For ten years he had not seen that beautiful face, and in 
those years nothing had prepared him for such an hour as this. 

From the first trance of joy he had dropped into the gulf of 
despair. She who had flashed light and life upon his narrow 
horizon would pass once more from his vision, cloud-wrapped 
in sorrow and veiled in inaccessibility. 

And yet, but a yard apart she stood, love in her mournful 
eyes, entreaty on her quivering lips. 

Must it be that further speech or meeting was forbidden ? 
Was there really danger behind that sweet tempting for some 
chance word or look — since once again the same land claimed 
them? 

The sudden passionate realization of all that life might have 
meant for him, and could mean no longer, rent his heart with 
agony. Words that he felt were madness tried to force them- 
selves through his lips. 

Sternly and firmly he fought with them and drove them back. 
His face became once more a mask, and she saw its cold and 
stony calm and knew she had had her answer. 

She put her hand to her heart as if to still its agony, and 
with the other drew the shrouding cloak about her form once 
more. 

Good-bye, Eugene,” she whispered. Good-bye. I am 
going home.” 

He returned her good-bye and watched her turn away, walk- 
ing steadily, easily, gracefully, over the dew-wet grass, amidst 
the broken stones ; the moonrays falling like a silver rain upon 
her dusky garments. 

He watched till neither her step nor herself was anything 
but a memory of the night. Then with one great and bitter 
cry he fell prone upon the ground, and lay there like the dead 
whose crumbling dust spoke out with dumb eloquence the van- 
ity of life ! 


170 


KITTY THE BAG, 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Hermia never knew how she reached her home. By some 
sheer blind impulse her feet took her over road and hill and 
rough, uneven ground, and led her to the entrance whence she 
had issued in this strange mood of desperate and inexplicable 
grief. 

The windows and doors were closed. She was obliged to 
ring for admission, obliged to murmur some half-inaudible ex- 
planation as she entered, and passed like a sombre shadow into 
the hall and up the dim-lit stairs. 

She heard the man say something, but she took no heed. 
She was beyond all trifling conventionalities now. 

A door was flung open and some one came out, and the 
lamplight beyond streamed over her anxious face. 

Why, Hermia, my dearest, we were getting so uneasy. I 
have been waiting for you for two hours, I think.” 

She made no answer. Hours — days — years ! What were 
they but sounds conveying no sense of time in such a moment 
as this ? She passed into the room. It was just as she had 
left it. The open window against which she had leant was 
open still. The light glittered on the hundred and one costly 
and beautiful things that she had brought here to adorn her 
own retreat. 

The pictures on the wall, the designs of the rugs on the pol- 
ished floor, the books and work and flowers, all seemed to flash 
with a raw and vivid identity upon her brain. The very book 
she had flung aside, impatient of a weak hero and a vicious 
heroine, lay half open on the table. 

And yet it seemed as if years had passed over her head since 
she had left them all. 

Judith Montressor’s voice broke wonderingly on her ear at 
last. 

** Hermia,” she said, what is it ? What has happened ? ” 

Then some sense of suffocating pain rushed dizzily through 
vein and pulse, and that impulse to press and crush it down 
brought her hands to her breast, even as she staggered dizzily 
toward the couch. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


171 


She fell there like a dead thing, while Judith, terrified and 
perplexed, loosened the cloak from about her shoulders and 
opened her dress at the throat. 

I am not going to faint,” she gasped. I — I shall be all 

right — soon.” 

** Oh ! what is it ? What has happened ? ” entreated Judith 
Montressor. “ Has anything frightened you ? Was any one 
lurking in the grounds? ” 

A little hysterical sob broke from the white throat where the 
veins throbbed so painfully. She turned her head aside and 
Judith saw the tears stream unchecked over her cheek as it lay 
against the crimson cushions. 

She asked no more questions ; she saw it was useless. She 
sprinkled Hermia’s brow and chafed her cold hands, and let 
her lie there weeping as she would until the storm was ex- 
hausted, and, passive and trembling, she lifted her eyes to that 
fond and anxious face so full of pity for her. 

‘^Be sorry for me, Judith,” she said. am past being 
sorry for myself.” 

Then her eyes closed and she lay motionless, save for some 
shuddering sobs that from time to time heaved her breast. 

Judith took the cold hands and held them closely. 

‘‘When you are calmer,” she said, “you must tell me 
everything. Surely you can trust me, Hermia ! We have 
reached a point in our friendship when perfect confidence is 
imperative. You need comfort — you need help. Who should 
give them to you if not a woman who has sorrowed and suf- 
fered as yourself? ” 

“Sorrowed — yes — but not sinned, Judith; not carried a 
shameful secret in her heart for ten long, hateful years ! Not 
risen and faced the ghost of that sin and seen what it meant 
for two lives — shipwrecked and lost, and given to despair. 
Oh, Judith ! if God were merciful He would let me die to- 
night.” 

“ Hush,” she said, hush, this is not yourself speaking, 
not your real self. ’ ’ 

“Yes, my real self at last. The one you have known was 
never real, Judith. I don’t know what to tell you. I never 
meant to tell you. You will despise me — you will turn from 
me. Oh ! all my life has been one long sham. I have de- 
ceived the world — I have deceived the man I called my hus- 
band. He never was my husband, Judith, in the true and 
Onl^ sense of the word. The blessings of a priest, the parrot 


172 


KITTY THE BAG. 


phrases of a ritual do not give a woman to a man unless she 
gives herself with them, and consecrates their meaning by her 
love, and that I never did, — that I never can do. I loved one, 
Judith, and it meant — everything. Can you read my story, 
now? ” 

‘^Tell me all,” Judith said in a hushed voice. Hermia 
drew her hands away from that gentle clasp, and covered her^ 
face with them. ' 

“ I was very young, Judith,” she said faintly. I had no 
mother — no one seemed to care about me. I was suffered to 
run wild — to do what I pleased. I was but sixteen when I 
found a companion after my own heart — a boy — wild, lawless, 
beautiful with that strange Spanish beauty one sees in these 
districts, and the voice of an angel I used to think. He was 
poor in station, but of good birth, and of family ancient as 
our own. In some far-off time that family had been united 
with ours, but had sunk into poverty and contempt. How- 
ever, at our age and with our undisciplined natures, what cared 
we for families or pedigrees or anything except the charm and 
attraction of uninterrupted companionship? Oh ! those days 
of idle wanderings ; the long gallops on bare-backed colts, wild 
and unbroken as ourselves; the careless, unchecked life of 
careless youth for whom the immediate hour means everything.” 

She broke off abruptly and half raised herself from the 
cushions. A hot flush burned on either cheek. “ Have I said 
enough ? ” she asked. 

“ Go on,” said Judith Montressor gently. 

Oh ! words are so poor ! ” she cried passionately. What 
can they say of what love meant for us — passionate, ardent, 
romantic, and innocent? For we were innocent, Judith, and 
vowed to each other, and sworn to be true, come what might ; 
but whether the priest before whom we plighted our troth was 
true or false I cannot tell. I only know that when our secret 
was discovered, I was told that it was one of shame. I only 
know that I have had to bear its guilty burden all these long 
and miserable years.” 

“Oh, poor child — poor Hermia ! Who was it that found 
out the truth ? ” 

“ It was my father,” she said. 

“Your father ? ” 

^‘I — I cannot even now think of that awful time — his rage 
and fury, and my own terror, without trembling. It was aw- 
ful, Judith. I must tell it as briefly as possible. He sought 


KITTY THE RAG. 


m 

Eugene, and banished him the country in charge of a priest 
who was was going to America. As for myself — I lived on 

under his roof until ” 

“ My God ! Hermia, you do not mean ” 

“ Yes. The worst happened that could happen, and I — I 
had to tell him. There was no one else I dared to confess it 
to. He bound me to secrecy, and together we went away to 
a wild and desolate part of the country where no one knew us, 
and few but peasant folk ever came. He took another name, 
and the people thought I — I was his wife.” 

“ Good God ! Hermia, this is horrible ! ” 

** He said it was the only way to save my honor. And I — 
I was too ill and wretched to care for anything. A poor 
peasant woman attended me. I think my father hoped I 
would die and that my disgrace might be covered by the grave. 
But though I was as near to death as a woman well might be, 
I — I did not die.” 

“ The child ? ” asked Judith hoarsely. 

It never lived, they told me. Yet, in the darkness of my 
sorrowing senses I thought I heard a cry that spoke of life as 
a birthright. The wonder and the woe of it have rung in my 
heart ever since that hour. That cry — the soul’s first protest 
against the burden of visible existence — Judith, no woman 
who has heard it, ever quite forgets.” 

I know,” Judith whispered, and her white face had in it 
the rapt look of one heaven-born memory. ** I have heard it 
once in my life, Hermia.” 

Their hands touched in that momentary sympathy with the 
fate of a common womanhood, that in some rare moment of 
life levels queen and beggar alike. 

For long after that,” went on Hermia, I knew nothing 
and heeded nothing. We went back to England and I was 
put to school. I was but a girl you see, Judith, and so igno- 
rant and foolish that I was ashamed of myself often. From 
the hour I left Knockrea I never returned till that summer, 
two years ago, when we first met.” 

When you were Lord Ellingsworth’s wife?” 

** Yes. Can you imagine now what my marriage meant for 
me ? How, when the chance came, I had no choice ? ” 

** Poor Ellingsworth ! Oh ! my poor Hermia, what a piti- 
ful tale this is ! ” 

Her own tears were falling on the hands she clasped, but 
Hermia seemed to have grown suddenly calm. 


174 


KITTY TBE RAG. 


*‘That is not all,” she said. '‘I may as well tell you 
everything, Judith. I said that my father sent Eugene away. 
After a time — it was soon after I had met Ellingsworth — he 
told me that the vessel in which he went out to America had 
been wrecked and that every soul had perished. Judith, I be- 
lieved that ! — I think otherwise I should never have married. 
I believed it until to-night.” 

To-night, Hermia?” 

Yes ; for only a few hours ago I learnt that he was alive 
— though dead to me. He has become a priest, Judith, and 
some cruel fate has sent him back to Ireland again.” 

** And you met? ” 

** We met as two ghosts might meet — risen from the graves 
of a buried past — and thaty Judith, is all my story.” 

Her voice broke once more and the tears filled her eyes 
as they looked on the tender, pitying face bent down to 
hers. 

Both women were silent for a space. There are moments 
in life when the poverty of mere words comes home to us — 
vainly we seek for any speech that could convey what our full 
hearts hold. Love silenced thus may spend itself in kisses or 
in sighs, but sorrow shrinks from any outward expression of 
what is at once too tragic and too sacred for speech. Hermia 
lay back on the pillows, her face white and rigid, her lips 
quivering — a sense of utter weariness and yet of relief upon 
her. 

It was good to have broken silence, she felt ; good to have 
cast off its hateful burden even for a few self-deceptive mo- 
ments. 

** I think,” she said at last, ** that nothing will ever hurt 
me any more. I seem to have come to the end of pain to- 
night.” 

“You will not meet him again,” urged Judith. “The 
more hopeless love seems, the greater its danger.” 

“ This is beyond hopelessness,” said Hermia. “ Death it- 
self could not be more final than the barrier these years have 
raised.” 

“If it grow too strong for you, or you took weak for it,” 
thought Judith sadly, “ the barrier even of a priest’s vocation 
might be powerless to save you — or him.” 

“And now,” went on Hermia wearily, “all has been said 
between us. Despise or pity me, Judith ; at least you know 
me for what I am — for what love made me. It seems a fool- 


RITTY THE BAG. 


175 


ish thing now to have ruined life, to have given myself all this 
misery to bear, when I might have been happy as — as other 
women are.” 

“Very few,” said Judith. “None that I have ever met, 
Hermia ; even though they wore their masks as skilfully as you 
have done.” 

“ Did I wear it skilfully? I used to fancy it slipped aside 
sometimes ; that the real face looked out from behind. I was 
afraid of you at first, Judith. You made me reveal more of 
myself than any other human being had ever seen. I could 
not lie to you ; I had to be honest whether I would or no.” 

“lam glad of that,” said Judith softly. “Oh, my dear ! 
if I could only help you to bear this — lighten it ever so little.” 

Hermia rose suddenly to a sitting position. Her heavy eyes 
wandered round the room. 

“It seems years ago,” she said, “since I left here. I 
wonder what strange impulse drew me out ! I felt I must go 
up to the old abbey once more ; it was there we used to meet, 
Judith — he and I — on just such nights as this, and I sat down 
and drew my cloak around me, and for once I gave sorrow free 
rein ; and then some one touched me on the shoulder and I 
looked up, and it was he — so pale and grave and sad, and yet 
so like the Eugene I had known ten years ago. And then — 
and then ” 

“ Ah ! ” said Judith pitifully, “ do not tell me more to- 
night. Your face said enough when I saw it an hour ago.” 

Hermia raised her hand to her brow with a weary gesture 
and pushed the soft hair back from her throbbing temples. 

“ Do you think love lasts all one’s life? ” she said. “ Do 
you think in ten years more I may get over it ? Ten years is 
a long time, Judith, when one is unhappy.” 

“ You won’t be always unhappy, dearest, believe me. You 
have faced the worst to-night. God grant you may not meet 
again, and God send you peace.” 

“ He has not sent it to Eugene,” she said, “ though he has 
given himself to His service — sacrificed all for the sake of his 
faith and his remorse.” 

“ I know ! I know ! ” said Judith brokenly. “ Oh ! it is 
terribly hard. What can I say to comfort you ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Hermia wearily. “Nothing! I seem to 
have touched the border line between life and desolation at 
last. See how calm I am now, Judith. I feel as if I could 
never cry again.” 


176 


RITTY TBt: RAG, 


She broke off with a little bitter laugh that jarred painfully 
on the silence, and on the feelings of the sorrowful listener. 

If I could pray, do you think it would make things easier 
— simpler for me ? Eugene believes in prayer ; but I — I can- 
not. Judith, you are a good woman ; you might help me — 
say something.” 

But there was nothing to say, for suddenly the light and life 
went out of her eyes, and for a time the merciful unconscious- 
ness that is twin-sister to Death closed every sense of feeling 
and every tortured nerve to all that had meant herself and her 
misery. 

Judith summoned her maid, and together they bore her to 
her own room and laid her on the bed. 

“She has had a shock,” she explained to the terrified girl. 
“ And, following on all this trouble and suspense, it has been 
too much for her.” 

Through the brief hours still left of that terrible night they 
kept watch beside the stricken woman. But when the death- 
like trance lapsed into fever and delirium, Judith Montressor 
knew that Nature had only exacted her due. No woman could 
have lived out those ten years of Hermia Ellingsworth’s life, 
and faced such a climax, without paying the penalty that she 
at last was called upon to pay. 


KITTY THE RAG. 


177 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The Red Hen sat by Biddy Maguire’s fireside, and, having 
passed in review all the moral backslidings of her friends and 
acquaintances, gave it as her opinion that it was a sorry world 
at best — for rich and poor alike. 

*‘Shure, look at yourself, Biddy woman,” she went on. 

You’re not the same at all, at all; an’ lettin’ the child be 
taken away whin she might have been a comfort to your ould 
age. It’s all for granjure she cares, an’ whin she’s back 
wid you it’ll be a flower-garden she’ll be havin’ instead of pur- 
taties, an’ a piano in the kitchen, I shouldn’t wonder, an’ 
evenin’ parties. Why you let her go to the quality at all, is 
what I’m axin’ myself.” 

Biddy said nothing, only looked at the glowing turf with 
eyes grown very sad and dim in those years of loneliness. 
She counted them as she counted her beads. For the last five 
she had not seen Kitty at all. She had not been allowed to 
come to Ireland for her holidays. But her school days were 
over at last, and she was to return to Biddy’s roof and Biddy’s 
cottage once more. 

The news had fallen like a thunderbolt on the astonished 
ears of the Dalin’ Woman. She had never expected that 
Philip Marsden would send the girl back to her poor home and 
her former life after giving her an expensive education, and 
totally unfitting her for a return to such a miserable existence. 

It seemed the height of cruelty, but then Philip Marsden 
had grown strangely cruel and harsh of late years — more mer- 
ciless, more tyrannical than ever. He was rarely seen ; he 
lived almost entirely within doors, and his house was barred 
and fenced around with precautions of every sort since that at- 
tempt on his life. 

An agent managed all the out-door business connected with 
his property. He himself lived a lonely, almost ascetic life, 
neither visiting nor entertaining, and seeing no one but his 
daughter, Dr. Garrick and the vicar of the parish. 

Six years had passed since that attempt on his life, but the 
perpetrator had never been discovered, and he bitterly resented 
that fact. 

12 


178 


KITTY THE RAG, 


He had had no belief in any Irish loyalty to a cause or a 
friendship that money would not bribe to betrayal, and yet no 
reward had brought about discovery in this instance. 

Jim Maguire, whom he strongly suspected, had been arrested 
on the charge of treason and sedition and been obliged to cool 
his heels in the county jail for some months ; but no one was 
able to support any graver charge against him, and he returned 
to Knockrea none the better in health or temper for his incar- 
ceration. 

Biddy still worked at her old trade and was none the less 
popular than of yore. At stated times she received a sum 
of money, the source of which was an entire mystery to 
her. 

Always on the packet were written the same words : ^^Froni 
a friend of your son." 

She treasured up these slips of paper, and took comfort 
from their regular arrival in the thought that Eugene still lived 
and had not forgotten her. 

She was in far more comfortable circumstances than any one 
else in the village, and the Red Hen looked enviously at the 
bright and tidy kitchen, the shining pots and pans, the neat 
curtain at the little window, the spotless floor and table, the 
flitches of bacon hanging from the ceiling, and the general air 
of comfort around. 

Hence her sarcastic remarks regarding the flower-garden and 
the piano. 

But Biddy’s heart was heavy within her. 

She could derive no comfort now from the thought of 
Kitty’s return. She could never be her child again ; never the 
careless, laughing thing, wild and mischievous as a kitten, the 
light and life of her home. Education — example — refined 
surroundings — all these had been hers for the years that in a 
child’s life mean so much. How could she ever content her- 
self again with the humble surroundings, the comparative ob- 
scurity of her old position ? 

Biddy had tried to obtain an interview with Philip Marsden, 
but he was obdurate and would not see her. 

He had kept his part of the bargain to the letter, but the 
charity he had shown was more cruel than any neglect. 

There were but a few days now intervening between Kitty’s 
arrival, and Biddy Maguire tried to assure herself that she was 
glad to have her back ; but in her secret heart she knew it was 
with more dread than delight she looked forward to that re- 


KITTY THE RAG. 


179 


union. But she let the Red Hen have her say, and kept her 
own misgivings to herself. 

“ You’ll be sendin’ her out to service, maybe ? ” continued 
that amiable seeress. “There’s Lady Ellingsworth, now; 
she’s wantin’ a maid. Her girl is goin’ to marry Pat Maher 
the baker’s son. But maybe it’s too fine Kitty will be now to 
be takin’ a situation. I never believed in schoolin’ myself, 
Biddy. It’s more harm than good it does to us poor folks. 
Divil a bit o’ lamin’ I iver had, but I’ve contrived to gain an 
honest livin’ for all that.” 

Biddy looked at her with a faint twinkle of merriment in 
her eyes. The Red Hen had certainly managed to gain a 
livelihood after a fashion of her own, but about it^ honesty or 
its manner of acquirement there might have been a question. 

“Times are changed, Molly,” she said, “ since you and I 
was young ; and Kitty always had a supayrior way wid her.” 

“ It was lookin’ down on the likes o’ us an’ jeerin’ at pov- 
erty that was her way,” said the Red Hen viciously. “To 
call it ‘supayrior ’ is a matter av opinion, av coorse.” 

“ That’s thrue for you, Molly. It’s my opinion. An’ we’ll 
not be talkin’ any more av Kitty, if ye plaze. Shure it’s proud 
an’ glad I’ll be to have her back again afther all these years, 
an’ if she’s changed — well. I’m not the one to complain av 
it.” 

“No! You’re a poor-spirited crathur, Biddy Maguire. 
Ye let her be taken away, an’ ye let her be thrown back, an’ 
only a ‘ thank ye kindly ’ to thim as plays wid yer feelings. 
If ’twas me. I’d show thim I wasn’t to be traited so I ” 

“Have you been to Mount Moira lately ?” asked Biddy 
irrelevantly. 

“ Indade, an’ I have! Herself is fine an’ well again, 
though a thrifle paler and thinner than she was whin she first 
came.” 

“ She has niver been the same since that illness,” said 
Biddy meditatively. 

“That’s thrue for you, an’ there’s a mighty quare thing 
about that same sickness. I’ve often thought, Biddy, though 
niver a word has passed my lips — but there’s things I could 
say ” 

She pursed her lips mysteriously, and Biddy gave a quick 
glance at the weird little face peering out from the dingy red 
shawl. 

“ Ah ! shure, Moll Flanagan, ’tis yerself is always the mys- 


180 


KITTY THE RAG. 


tarious woman,” she said impatiently. “ What could you 
know about her? Didn't the doctor say 't was the throuble 
an’ the shock of her poor father’s accident that upset her? — 
lavin’ alone that the Mount isn’t the healthiest place to be 
livin’ in, and Desmond Moira nivir was the sort to throuble 
his head about a thrifle like drains. What wid the bog, an’ 
the ould graves on the hill — shure, didn’t the doctor himself 
tell me that fayver is just a matter av the way av the wind ? ” 

“ ’Twas a bad fayver, intirely. Don’t I know that for three 
weeks there nivir was a bit av sinse in her talk, poor sowl ? 
and but for Mrs. Montressor, the darlin’ woman that is the 
good friend to her, sorra a bit would she iver have got over it. 
Well, I’ll be goin’ now, Biddy agra. I’ve had enough o’ talk, 
an’ faith ’tis overcome wid the slape I’ll be if I stay longer by 
the fire. I’ll come round in a few days to see Kitty an’ talk 
things over wid ye. But it’s sarvice ye’ll have to make up yer 
mind for, in spite of her grand education. Good-bye, Biddy 
woman ! The Lord sind you a good slape to-night an’ pace- 
ful dreams. It’s borne in on me that ye won’t have many 
more av thim.” 

“ Shure, ye’re a grand hand at prophesying misfortune, 
Molly,” exclaimed Biddy; ye might try your tongue at a 
bit av pleasantness by way av a change.” 

“I can only say what’s tould me,” said the Red Hen 
solemnly. 

But who tells you ? ” 

‘^Ah! woman dear, don’t be axin’ me that! There’s 
things couldn’t be tould. ’Twould be frightened to death 
ye’d be if I said what I hear in the wild nights when the wind 
is croonaunin' round the churchyard. The ‘ good people ’ 
are nearer than ye think, for, Biddy ” 

“Ah 1 for the love o’ heaven, don’t be say in’ such things ! ” 
exclaimed Biddy, rising abruptly. “ It’s not Christian or 
nathural, and as for throubles, they’ll come fast enough 
whether ye tell me so or not.” 

But when she was once more alone Biddy felt her heart 
growing heavier and heavier under a weight of foreboding. 
The secret she had so long kept haunted her lonely hours 
more persistently than ever. She had breathed it to no 
living soul— not even the priest— but then Biddy was not 
a very good Catholic, and had her own ideas about confes- 
sion. 

Sometimes of late she had felt sorely tempted to confide it 


KITTY THE RAG. 


181 


to the good, easy-going old priest who had charge of the 
parish, but then something seemed to caution her against re- 
vealing what was really another person’s secret, and the oath 
that had bound her so long reasserted its power and kept her 
dumb. 

As she looked round her bright little kitchen now, and re- 
flected on the many good gifts fortune had of late bestowed on 
her, she found herself wondering whether Mr. Marsden had ‘ 
adopted a new method of charity giving — the “ letting not his 
right hand know what the left was bestowing ” system. Hard 
and ungenial and unpopular as most people considered him, 
Biddy knew that at least he had been very kind to her and to 
Kitty, and strange as was his present determination to do 
no more for her, yet, doubtless, he would aid her secretly so as 
to give no cause for scandal in a place too scandal-loving 
already. 

She took Kitty’s last letter from her pocket — the letter 
written in hot indignation against Philip Marsden’s de- 
cision. 

“ I will come back," it said, but I shall not stay. I must 
see him myself and ask his intentions, and then I shall come to 
a decision about my own life in the future." 

The clear, distinct writing seemed indicative of force and 
decision of character. Education had, indeed, done much for 
Kitty the Rag. 

But if it came to a battle of wills ! — Biddy’s hand trembled 
as she replaced the letter in its envelope. She scented storm 
and trouble near at hand. 

It was a heavy heart she took to her bed with her that night 
— heavy despite the thought of so soon seeing the child she 
loved — the child she loved still despite the ingratitude that 
had been her only reward. 


A tall, graceful slip of a girl came walking up the straggling 
village street two days later. A girl with flashing eyes and a 
mutinous handsome face, and about whose whole figure and 
aspect rebellion seemed to breathe. 

Her eyes took in the old, familiar landmarks, noting a 
change here and there, and conscious above all of the change 
in herself. 

Pressed with severe simplicity, there was something in her 


182 


KITTY THE BAG. 


carriage, her easy grace, her perfect self-confidence that bore 
out the old traditions of race. There was pride in the 
scornful lip, the flashing eye, and more than pride, there was 
that curious distinct likeness to another face which is one of 
Nature’s ironies when the branch has no ostensible right to the 
root. 

She came along, her head borne high, giving but brief greet- 
ing to many a kindly remark, for all knew that this was Biddy 
Maguire’s Kitty come back once more — the child about whom 
there had been more talk and mystery than any other in the 
village. 

She came on, and once more in the fading sunset she stood 
at Biddy’s door. 

A wave of mingled feelings swept over her as she paused at 
the old gate. In spite of changes it seemed such a brief while 
since she had leant over that gate one summer evening in her 
rags and dirt, and watched the carriage bearing that beautiful 
woman to the big house, and vowed in her own heart that she 
too would be a lady and have riches and pleasure and excite- 
ment at her own disposal ! 

What a little progress she had made ! Only one step on the 
road as yet, the road that looked so inviting, so easy to 
traverse, and yet upon whose very outset she had been checked 
and rebuffed. 

At present she was nursing in her heart a bitter rage 
against Philip Marsden. What right had he to make her 
the victim of his caprices? If she had no lawful claim on 
his protection, she had at least a natural one. Why had he 
lifted her out of a slough of poverty and obscurity only 
to cast her back again? He had promised her the future 
of a fairy tale and then played the part of the wicked en- 
chanter. 

Her heart was hot with indignation as she thought of 
her own credulity and the manner in which it had been 
fostered. 

As she lingered a moment over the threshold of the cottage 
Biddy came out. She had not known what day or hour to 
expect her, but the moment she caught sight of the graceful 
figure and radiant girl’s face she knew who it was that stood 
there. 

Her heart stood still with terror, then as suddenly throbbed 
wildly with joy. 

The terror was at the likeness she had discovered, the joy 


KITTY THE BAG, 


183 


that her eyes were blessed once more with the sight of her 
darling. 

Granted wishes are sometimes only curses disguised. 

Even as her arms held the girl, and her kisses fell on the 
beautiful proud face, the poor Balin’ Woman felt that never 
again could she hold part or meaning in the life of the child 
she had loved so well. 

She was nothing to her any longer. As she looked into the 
eyes that had no answering love — only a petulant impatience 
— Biddy knew that her last hope died out. Words of welcome 
lost their eloquence. The Kitty she had known, rescued, 
toiled for, cared for with all her humble strength, was dead to 
her for’ ever ! 


184 


KITTY TEE RAG. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

It’s no use, Kitty child. I’m shure the rnasther won’t see 
you. He’ll see no one at all these times, saving the doctor or 
Lady Ellingsworth.” 

It was Mrs. Geoghagan who was speaking. 

Kitty had walked over to the big house the morning 
after her arrival and demanded an interview with Philip 
Marsden. 

I intend to see him,” she said quietly, as the housekeeper 
ceased. “ So you may as well let me into the library ; I have 
something to say that he must hear.” 

Mrs. Geoghagan looked perturbed. 

Shure ’tis yourself had always the fine sperrit, Kitty,” she 
said. But I’d be afraid to make so bould as ye’re doin’. 
He’s mighty hard to plaze, an’ his temper’s none o’ the best 
these times.” 

‘‘I’m not afraid of himself or his temper,” said Kitty. 
“And he’ll not blame you, Mrs. Geoghagan, take my word 
for it.” 

She glanced at the clock. 

“It’s twelve now,” she said. “Will Mr. Marsden be 
down ? ’ ’ 

“ Down ! Yes; these two hours or more. Well, take your 
own way, Kitty, an’ don’t be blamin’ me if he sends you flyin’ 
out o’ the room like a whirlwind, wid the anger an’ the rage 
av him for your intrusion.” 

Kitty’s face paled slightly, but she only drew her head up 
and walked defiantly from the room. 

She knew her way well and went straight to the library. She 
did not even knock at the door, but turned the handle and 
entered. 

Philip Marsden was seated in a tall leather-backed chair be- 
fore a table covered with books and papers. 

He lifted his head as the door was opened, and his eyes 
flashed an angry inquiry at the intruder. She closed the 
door with quiet deliberation, then crossed the room and stood 
before him. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


185 


With one rapid glance she noted the change those five 
years had made in his appearance. His face had grown 
sharper and thinner ; his hair was quite white ; his mouth 
had taken cruel and cynical lines. His whole face betokened 
hardness and severity. 

For a moment he looked at her with an unrecognizing 
wonder. Then something in the eyes and mouth struck 
him as familiar. He leant back in his chair and a heavy 
frown darkened his brows. 

‘‘Why have you come here ? ” he said. 

“ Because it is time we had an explanation,” she answered. 
“ You wrote to me and said my education was now finished, 
and that I must make my own way in the world. Do you 
mean this — is it all you intend to do for me? ” 

“ I am not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean,” he 
said coldly ; “and you have wasted your time in coming here 
if it is only to ask what my letter has already stated.” 

“It is unjust,” she cried stormily, “and cruel! What 
can I do ? You bade me go back to Biddy. Do you 
expect I can live that life again? You know it is im- 
possible ! ” 

“ I gave you all I promised,” he said steadily, watching 
every change and expression in her face with merciless eyes. 
“ More than you had any right to expect.” 

“No!” she said. “Not more; not half enough, con- 
sidering the tie between us.” 

He laughed scornfully. “ There is no tie,” he said. 
“ That is a fallacy of your brain.” 

“ You did not deny it — once.” 

“No ! I was amused at your audacity in asserting it. 
But proof is another thing altogether.” 

“ I may find proof,” she said. 

Fie laughed harshly. 

“I hardly think you will,” he said. “Proof of a non- 
existing fact will be somewhat difficult to discover.” 

“ Then you deny that you are my father?” 

“ Most distinctly and decidedly I do.” 

She grew strangely white and leaned heavily against the 
table. 

“ You are a cruel man — a hard man — a man whom no 
one loves and many hate. Are you not afraid sometimes 
of — of what may be your end ? ” she said. 

“ J^of in the least,” he said cooll)\ “The noise of these 


186 


KITTY THE BAG, 


raging hyenas without, does not trouble me any more than the 
noise of the wind in a gale.” 

She looked at him with a sort of despairing hopelessness. 
‘^If you know anything of who I am, or what I am, will you 
not tell me?” she urged. “That I am not low born I 
feel assured. It is natural to me to ” 

“To love ease and luxury — to let others work for your 
enjoyment. I am afraid your sex is not exceptional in that 
weakness.” 

She flushed proudly. 

“No,” she said. “It is not that. I don’t mind work 
— I mean to work. But I cannot believe that you acted out 
of mere caprice ; that you let me stay here ” 

“ Ah ! ” he said with a grim smile, “I thought we should 
arrive at that. You rather forced that invitation from me, 
if you remember ; and I, being more good-natured, perhaps, 
in those days, allowed you to remain. Besides, I was 
curious to see if you were adaptable — I found you were. 
Still a caprice is not a precedent, and your holidays have 
been spent at school or abroad since that little episode. I 
must say you have done credit to your change of life. You 
might pass for a lady — which I believe was once the height 
of your ambition — in any society not too critical, or too 
refined.” 

“ I am very different to what I was,” she said haughtily, 
“ and I shall not go back to it again. I came here to tell 
you that. If I have no claim on you, as you say, I shall 
choose my own life. I can go on the stage ” 

“Certainly!” he said. “There are a few trifles, of 
course, to be considered — such as talent, culture, experi- 
ence — but they are comparatively unimportant. I hear 
nowadays if a woman has a handsome face and a good 
figure ’ ’ 

“And I can sing,” she went on angrily. “ None of the 
girls had a voice like mine. The master told me it was fit for 
grand opera.” 

“ Indeed ! ” he said, raising his eyebrows superciliously. 
“That is news, at all events. Ireland has not produced a 
genuine prima donna yet, I believe I ” 

“ I could teach, or write, or be a secretary or companion,” 
she went on. “You could find me some post of that sort, 
could you not ? ” 

He started ever so slightly. The words struck a chord 


KITTY THE BAG, 


187 


of irony in his mind, and set it vibrating to a new fancy 
which pleased him more than he could express. 

‘‘I think,” he said slowly, “I might find you a posi- 
tion of that nature, but it would require a little time. Mean- 
while, however repugnant to your feelings, you really must 
content yourself with your former home and former life. My 
doors are closed to you — for a time, at all events. I have a 
reputation to keep up, you know, Kitty.” 

His voice had so strange a ring, his eyes so strange a gleam, 
that she looked at him with undisguised wonder. 

‘‘ For a time? ” she said questioningly. 

** Yes ! ” he said. “It is not impossible that you may 
return here one day. But you will have to fit yourself for the 
position.” 

“ I — I cannot understand you,” she said. 

“I do not mean that you should,” he answered curtly. 
“ And now I think we have discussed your affairs long 
enough. I suppose I ought not to say your visit was un- 
welcome ; it was certainly unexpected.” 

“You surely did not think I should live here, almost at 
your gates, and not try to see you ? ” 

“ I have given up expecting anything from women that is 
rational,” he answered coldly. “ But pray do not honor me 
with any more unceremonious visits. I shall do my best to 
find you some employment. If you do not like it, there is 
always the stage, you know, and your voice to fall back 
upon.” 

The blood swept hotly to her brow. She had always 
hated that icy irony of word and voice with which he em- 
phasized any special sarcasm. 

“You may jeer as you please,” she said. “ But I have a 
voice ! Some day you will hear and know for yourself.” 

“I hope not,” he answered coldly. “I have been in- 
flicted with too many school-girl sopranos and assisted too 
often at the murder of art to care for a repetition of the 
treat. You are all geniuses at sixteen, and amateurs at 
twenty ! ” 

“Good-bye ! ” she said abruptly, and walked over to the 
door. He watched her as he might have watched the paces 
of a horse, or the points of a picture. 

“How rapidly women are modulated,” he thought. “A 
boy would have been a mere cub at her age, and she has 
actually grace and some sort of distinction in her carriage. 


188 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Good-bye ! ” he added aloud as she reached the door. ** I 
hope you will have a pleasant holiday with your old friends. 
Contrasts are the salt of life, you know.” 

She made no answer, only left the room and the house, 
her face burning, and her heart hot with anger and hurt pride 
and wounded feelings. 

Proudly as she held herself, proudly as she walked through 
the familiar ways and down the broad white road, she }et 
shrank from every friendly glance and word. 

The rough brogue made the kindly expressions sound 
barbarous and hateful. The familiar greetings angered 
instead of pleased her. She hated to think that a few years 
back she was only as one of these daughters of the soil — 
ragged, unkempt, ignorant. She resented the fact that the 
marvelous change in her outward appearance did not im- 
press her old acquaintances. To them she was still only 
Kitty — Kitty, the village child — Kitty, the nameless waif, 
at the caprice of charity or interest, possessing no claim or 
no rights — a weed thrown on the pathway of life to be 
trampled upon, or take its own chance of growth as chance 
should decree. 

No wonder her heart was bitter within her; no wonder 
that she rebelled with all her fierce young soul against the 
tyranny of life. 

Instinct — feeling — desires were all at war with her sur- 
roundings. More so than ever, since contrast lent its force to 
past and present experiences. 

Biddy saw at a glance that she had been disturbed and 
vexed, but she asked no questions. She had learnt already 
that it was useless to do so. With the cruel self-absorption 
of youth she thought her own interests paramount, and 
scarcely noted Biddy at all. Her humble efforts at im- 
proving the routine of their lives were also ignored. Kitty 
ate her food in sulky apathy, and more because the healthy 
appetite of youth demanded sustenance than because she 
appreciated the improvement in Biddy’s culinary arts, or the 
attempt at setting a table in a manner more befitting the 

ways of the quality.” 

Daily and hourly the Dalin’ Woman’s good heart was 
stabbed through and through by the indifference of the girl. 
In her own humble way she felt that she deserved more than 
this at her hands, but a certain rough philosophy assured her 
that a niggard return for past benefits is all that one human 


KITTY THE RAG, 


189 


being has any right to expect from another. In any case, it is 
all they generally get. 

Kitty said nothing of her visit to Philip Marsden. She was 
too proud to acknowledge defeat, and she still nursed a secret 
hope that he would do something for her. He could not pos- 
sibly intend that she should return to poverty and obscurity. 
This was some momentary caprice of his — a probation for her 
ere he should have made up his mind what was best to be 
done. 

She was naturally indignant at having to return to Biddy’s 
cottage when she had made certain of going to the big house, 
but even this blow was softened by her own determination to 
seek for some occupation more congenial at the earliest oppor- 
tunity, and the knowledge that the whole village must perforce 
admit she was “ quite the lady ” at last, as Biddy proudly pro- 
claimed. 

But one perpetual affront to her tastes and feelings now was 
the presence of Jim. He was as dirty, as drunken, as full of 
sedition and discontent as of yore, and she hated the sight of 
him. All the more because he perpetually ridiculed her fine 
lady ways, and persisted in recalling the early years of her life, 
and her old nickname of “ Kitty the Rag.” 

Nothing enraged her so much, and the fact of her anger 
only made him torment her more and more as time went on. 

A week had passed since that visit to Philip Marsden, and no 
sign or word had come from him. To Kitty it had been a 
week of penance and misery. Most of her time she spent out 
of doors in long rambles with a book for company, for she 
was wise enough to study unceasingly, knowing how much de- 
pended on her proficiency. 

One Sunday morning she took it into her head to go off to 
a chapel in the adjoining parish. 

It was the festival of some saint, and a special preacher, 
whose name had spread into fame for many months past, was 
expected to deliver the sermon. 

The chapel was four miles away, but Kitty cared little for 
distance. 

She arrived in good time, but was astonished to find the 
little building crammed almost to suffocation. It was wdth 
difficulty she got in, and only by careful edging forward and 
strategic manoeuvring did she secure a chair at all. 

She listened to the prayers before Mass with comparative in- 
difference. It was little" enough she cared for religion at this 


190 


KITTY THE EAG. 


time of her life. As the time for the sermon drew near a sort 
of general excitement prevailed. Late comers were lingering 
round the door. Every inch of standing room was now occu- 
pied, and though doors and windows were all open the heat 
was intense. 

Suddenly, amidst a breathless silence, a priest advanced 
and mounted the little pulpit. He had no notes in his hand. 
His face was pale and worn — his eyes large and strangely 
bright — the brightness of that inner light whose fervor con- 
sumes soul and body relentlessly. 

They glanced rapidly over the sea of eager faces upraised to 
his own. Then he bent his head and uttered the brief Latin 
formula they knew so well, and gave out his text. 

Kitty looked at him earnestly. His face awoke some 
memory she could not quite grasp. His voice completed the 
chain of association. She knew that it was the same priest 
she had met on the steamer when she was coming to Kings- 
town after her first year in England. 


KITTY THE RAG, 


191 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Kitty had heard many preachers and many sermons. She 
felt she had never yet listened to such a preacher as this. It 
was not only the subject and the treatment of it that were so 
fascinating, but the beauty of the voice, the eloquence and 
fervor of a born rhetorician, lent additional charm to a natural 
gift of oratory. 

Here, indeed, was a born leader of men” and captor of 
souls. The simplest phrases became powerful as a spell — in- 
vested with new meaning, melting obdurate hearts, swaying 
emotional ones. 

When he spoke of the joys of renunciation every one felt 
that all sacrifice was possible should he direct or desire it. 
When he spoke of the joys of heaven, the tortures of purga- 
tory, the glories of martyrdom or vanities of life, every heart 
ached for the release and the joys, the self-abnegation and the 
crown of thorns to which he pointed the way and the means. 

There are speakers whose personal magnetism is their most 
precious gift, and when to such magnetism is added the charm 
of voice, the gift of language, and the fervor of the enthusiast, 
one recognizes the gifts that have made leaders and martyrs 
alike, and ceases to wonder at enthusiasm. 

Entranced and breathless the mass of worshippers listened, 
tears rolling down their cheeks and sighs bursting from their 
full hearts. And as he spoke, leaning forward now in his 
earnestness and self-forgetfulness, the priest suddenly caught 
sight of the rapt face and glowing eyes of Kitty. 

He stopped short — his face whitened to the very lips — the 
chain of thought snapped as a thread snaps before the flame 
of a candle. Then with a supreme effort he controlled his 
emotion and took up his subject once more. But now only 
the stress and force of habit held the place of enthusiasm, and 
he concluded with an abruptness almost startling, and left the 
pulpit and passed into the sacristy, where he sank into a chair, 
trembling like one in an ague fit. 

The ghost of a former life — the flush and radiance of youth 
and all its blissful memories had flashed back to him from that 


m 


KITTY THE RAG. 


young face. In quaking dread he sat, asking himself who it 
could be — this reflex of another face, this lovely bit of youth 
and beauty. 

In the little looking-glass hanging on the wall of the sacristy 
he sought sight of himself. His natural energy of character 
reasserted its controlling force, and he wiped the damp from 
his brow and tried to compose his ghastly features into their 
ordinary expressionless repose. 

Surely I grow fanciful,” he said. A mere chance like- 
ness — a girl’s face to terrify me thus ” 

He gave himself up to prayer until the time came for him 
to assist at the Mass. Resolutely he kept his eyes away from 
the congregation in brief intervals that compelled him to face 
them; but he need not have feared, for Kitty had slipped 
away at the conclusion of the service, and was walking slowly 
back under the hot sunshine, her heart full and her mind 
troubled and uneasy. 

Her imagination had been strongly affected by that sermon. 
Had she been of softer moral fibre the impression would have 
been deeper and perhaps more painful, but hard and rebel- 
lious as was her nature it had for once acknowledged the power 
of goodness in another. 

There was no doubt that Father Considine believed all he 
said. No one could have looked at that glorified spiritual face 
and doubted that for him at least God and Christ and Heaven 
were vivid realities. 

But then, what can he know of life? ” she thought resent- 
fully, with that ignorance and presumption of mere youth, 
whose sorrows, to itself, are so all-important. 

Kitty, in her own little world, seemed to herself the central 
figure. The insidious whispers of vanity and ambition had 
f deafened her to other voices wiser or more truthful. Yet on 
this glorious summer day her reluctant eyes had beheld a 
vision that made all else seem poor and of no account. She 
had seen a mortal man in fellowship with angels, bearing on 
his brow the stamp of the noblest purity; bowing the hearts 
of all who gazed at, and all who heard, him in reverence less 
enforced by rights of office than by individual feeling. 

The power of Goodness had taken form and shape for the 
wayward waif. She might ignore — she could never again deny it. 

Restless and disturbed, the smart of unshed tears in her 
eyes, and self-reproach gnawing at her heart, she took her way 
homeward. Perhaps for a little space Kitty rose to a height 


KITTY THE BAG. 


193 


that she never suspected, and seeing something of her own 
thanklessness and vanity grew humble and penitent. Her 
better nature struggled against the ill weeds that she had suf- 
fered to grow unchecked, and she recognized one influence 
under which she might have become nobler, better, braver. 

She went home so gentle and subdued that Biddy marvelled, 
and in her tender, humble way treasured up every crumb of 
comfort the change cast to her hungry heart. When evening 
came Kitty asked her to go for a walk, and, in spite of fatigue 
and a growing weakness of which she was becoming conscious, 
Biddy donned her best bonnet and shawl and went proudly 
forth by her darling’s side. 

Kitty directed their steps to the ruined abbey, and the long 
and toilful ascent tired Biddy severely, but martyrdom would 
have been welcome to her for the sake of the gentle words and 
altered manner of Kitty. All previous slights and rudeness 
were forgotten. She felt she would have gladly died then and 
there in that moment of reawakened hope, amidst that tender 
atmosphere of graciousness. They seated themselves in Kitty’s 
old favorite nook, and she threw herself down on the grass and 
leant her head against Biddy’s knees. 

“Biddy,” she said, “are you ever going to tell me who I 
am? It is no use pretending I come of poor and common 
folk. I can feel I don’t. I want a different life, and I seem 
to have always wanted it, even when I was a ragged, ignorant 
child. Biddy, tell me for the love of Heaven who were my 
parents ! ” 

The lovely eyes looked up at the Balin’ Woman’s face, pas- 
sionate — beseeching — wringing her very soul with their entreaty. 

The shadow of intense suffering swept over Biddy’s face. 
Her lips trembled. 

‘ “Ah! Kitty darling,” she said faintly, “it’s no use yer 
axin’ me that. I took an oath onst and it would be my death 
to break it. Neither to man, woman, nor praste could I ivir 
tell the story until I’m laid on me dying bed. Maybe thin I 
may spake out and relayve me own sowl — for indade, acushla, 
it’s been a weary burden to me these many years.” 

An impatient frown darkened Kitty’s brow. 

“ I have a right to know,” she said. “ I Z£////know. Some- 
how — in some way I shall find it out, and then ” 

“ Don’t say rash words, darlin’,” entreated Biddy. “ Thim 
as curse are as dften as not thim on whom the curse falls.” 

“ I shall not curse them,” said Kitty proudly. “ But I shall 
13 


194 


KITTY THE RAG. 


hate them, father and mother both. What right had they to 
give me life and then forsake me ? Why, the very beasts and 
birds are more compassionate to their young ! ” 

‘‘ Wisha, wisha, child ! Ye don’t know the rights of things 
to be spakin’ sich wicked words! Supposin’ they couldn’t 
help it — supposin’ they was parted and never knew ” 

“My mother must have known,” said Kitty rebelliously, 
“ and she deserted me. I tell you, Biddy, if ever we meet — 
if ever I know who she was — I shall deal her back what she 
has given me to bear. The measure of her sin shall be the 
measure of my hate 1 ” 

“Hush, child,” cried Biddy warningly. “There’s steps 
beyant. Some one is there and heard ye.” 

Kitty rose to her feet and glanced through the broken arches 
of the cloisters. Some one was there. A woman standing 
motionless, her eyes fixed on the reddened glory of the sun, 
her face bathed in the splendor of its golden rays. 

As the girl moved she looked at her quietly, unrecognizingly. 
But Kitty knew it was the beautiful daughter of Philip Marsden. 

A hot flush of shame suffused her cheek. She stood per- 
fectly motionless, her eyes cast down. Something of the 
wonder and admiration she had felt before for the “ beautiful 
lady” swept over her impulsive heart, and she felt a thrill of 
shame at the thought of the words she had just uttered. But 
pride held her dumb, and the stubborn knees bent in no curtsy 
now. 

Lady Ellingsworth still stood silent, but something in the 
embarrassment of the girl appealed to her at last, and she made 
a step forward. 

“Were you looking at the sunset?” she asked. “It is 
very beautif^ul from here.” 

Kitty lifted her eyes. “You have forgotten me, I suppose, 
my lady?” she said. 

“ Forgotten you ? Have I ever seen you before? ” 

“ It was many years ago, here, in this very same place. Do 
you remember a child to whom you talked, and to whom you 
gave some good advice ? ” 

Lady Ellingsworth’s thoughts strayed into a labyrinth of 
conjecture. The girl aroused many vague memories, and they 
were not altogether pleasant. 

She looked at the tall, supple figure, the lovely face, then 
her eyes wandered further to where Biddy sat, a silent figure, 
motionless as her seat. She knew her, at all events. 


KITTY THE BAQ. 


195 


Why/’ she exclaimed, “ you must be Kitty Maguire.” 

“Yes,” said the girl simply, “lam called that now.” 

Lady Ellingsworth advanced eagerly. 

“ How strange,” she said. “I was coming to §ee you to- 
morrow, in compliance with a wish of my father’s. He has 
written asking me if I could give you any sort of employment 
for a time. 1 thought I would come and see you and ask what 
you could do. My maid ” 

Kitty’s eyes flashed scornfully. “ No, thank you, my lady,” 
she said proudly. “I will be no one’s maid or servant. I 
am capable of better things than that ! ” 

“ Kitty child, Kitty ! ” murmured Biddy protestingly. 

“Then — what is it you want? ” inquired Lady Ellingsworth 
in some surprise. “ I understood ” 

“Mr. Marsden knows that I have plenty of accomplish- 
ments,” said Kitty, speaking clearly and slowly and with as 
perfect an English accent as Hermia herself. “ 1 write a good 
hand. I can play and sing. I know French and Italian. I 
want to go somewhere where such things are of use.” 

“A companionship or secretaryship would suit you,” said 
Hermia slowly. “ Well — of late I have found my correspond- 
ence somewhat more than I can manage, and I am passionately 
fond of music. My own voice has never been the same since 
a severe illness I had some years ago. Would you care to come 
to me and write my letters, and amuse one in the long, lonely 
evenings ? ” 

Kitty’s face flushed gladly. “ Indeed I would,” she said. 
“I long to be independent; at least this will serve as a be- 
ginning.” 

She expressed no gratitude, no fear of her own incompe- 
tence. Hermia thought she was certainly the most self-confi- 
dent young person she had ever come across. 

She looked at her keenly and critically. Her beauty was 
undeniable, and the new air of distinction and dignity which 
she had acquired sat quite naturally upon her. 

There is an adaptability about the Irish that readily suits 
itself to any situation, however unusual ; but, in the case of 
Kitty, hereditary instincts had assisted this adaptability. 

It was no effort to her to appear what she now seemed, and 
Hermia was quick to recognize the fact. 

It in no way allayed her suspicions; indeed, it increased 
them, and made her father’s interest in the girl easily explic- 
able. 


196 


KITTY THE RAQ, 


He had been somewhat urgent in his appeal to her to be* 
friend Kitty, and yet throughout the appeal it had seemed to 
her as if a note of command was sounding. 

This sudden rencontre^ while it had taken her by surprise, 
yet served a certain purpose that neither had anticipated. 

In spite of an undercurrent of antagonism they felt strangely 
attracted toward each other. The elder woman unbent more 
graciously than the younger. To her it was less of an effort. 
The girl’s rare beauty had a certain pathos — set as it was in 
such uncongenial surroundings — it appealed as strongly as any 
claim to one who knew the snares and pitfalls of the world. 

So she lingered on, talking chiefly to Biddy, but listening 
and watching Kitty with intense interest. 

She saw that the girl would develop into yet greater beauty, 
and something about her awoke a recollection of her own long 
past youth, and made her pitiful of even the pride that re- 
pelled her own kindliness. For she recognized the pride even 
more than the vanity, and where once she would have been 
contemptuous she was now compassionate. 

The fires of a great sorrow had purged much of her own 
pride — shown her much of her own egotism. She was actu- 
ated as much by a genuine compassion as by a desire to please 
her father in this matter of receiving the girl under her own 
roof. 

Besides, she knew that a hawk once unfettered will come 
back no more, and Kitty’s wings had already been spread to 
the winds of freedom. Better they should have their fill of 
the liberty that she called independence. 


1 


KITTY THE BAG. 


197 


CHAPTER XXX. 

It is a dangerous experiment,” said Judith Montressor. 

I don’t see the danger,” answered Hermia. “ There is no 
. doubt about her abilities or her beauty, and I feel it would be 
unkind to leave her to the tender mercies of strangers. My 
father says she will go on the stage if nothing else intervenes ; 
and we know, Judith, what that means for a girl, young, in- 
nocent and as lovely as this girl is.” 

‘^But why does not your father get her some situation or 
employment, since he has made himself responsible for her 
education ? ” 

*<That is just what he has done,” said Hermia. He 
offered her services to me.” 

should like to see her again,” said Mrs. Montressor 
thoughtfully. “It is many years since she was here. Has she 
been all that time at school? ” 

“Yes, I believe so. Her education has certainly been ex- 
cellent. I daresay I shall find her very useful, and even if I 
don’t, and we don’t suit one another, there will be no harm 
done. I can easily find her something else. I have not quite 
lost touch with all my former friends and acquaintances.” 

“Is she the sort of girl to adapt herself to a dependent po- 
sition — tend the lap-dog, mind the parrot, hold skeins of wool, 
and read out the Times and the Nineteenth Century to old 
ladies? ” 

Hermia smiled. “Well, no,” she said; “I hardly think 
she is, but you will soon be able to judge for yourself — she is 
coming here to-morrow.” 

“ Do you intend that she should dine with you — spend her 
evenings with you? ” 

“When I am alone — yes. I cannot do things by halves, 
Judith.” 

< < The people here will think it rather strange ; don’t you 
think so?” 

“ I have never regulated my actions by the opinions of other 
people if they seemed right to myself.” 

“ How proud you are, dearest.” 


198 


KITTY TEE BAO. 


Ah, no, Judith — I don’t call that pride. It is only a con- 
viction of one’s own stability of mind. I laid my pride down 
once and for all— that night when I told you my story and 
showed you myself.” 

** You are not sorry, Hermia, that you told me?” 

“No; I think it was a relief. You have a noble nature, 
Judith ; you gave not only sympathy, but what is harder — 
comprehension.” 

“The wound is healing, is it not, Hermia? We have not 
spoken of it for long.” 

“Yes ; I think it is healing, Judith. The pain is still there, 
but it is less severe and less hopeless.” 

“ Hermia, I think I ought to tell you something. Since we 
have broached the subject once again I find it easier. Her- 
mia, have you heard of the wonderful preaching of a certain 
Father Considine who from time to time is sent to different 
parishes around ? I think it is in hopes of stirring the people 
into a new phase of religious feeling. In any case, his suc- 
cess and his power are undeniable. Well, I went to hear him 
a short time ago, and I think — I am almost sure, Hermia ” 

“That he is Eugene Maguire? I know it,” she said sadly 
and yet proudly. “ He took a different name on entering the 
order. Yes, Judith, I have heard of him, and heard him also.” 

“ You, Hermia ! You never told me.” 

“ We had agreed it was best not to speak of him too often. 
And I found it hard to express what his preaching meant to 
me, or how strange it seemed to sit there — aloof, unknown — 
and listen to that beautiful voice, and thrill and tremble and 
grow faint beneath the spell of that almost supernatural elo- 
quence.” 

“You are right. His preaching is the most marvelous I 
ever listened to. He seems to have the power of touching the 
very core of sorrow — of going straight to the heart. He will 
be of importance to his order some day — of too great impor- 
tance to be left unnoticed and unhonored in a country parish.” 

Hermia’s cheek paled. What woman is there who has not 
said in her heart : “ Though our lives be apart, let him I love 

be within sight of my eyes, or reach of my hand ” ? For 
woman palters with temptation more often and more fatally 
than man, and the snares of Satan are for ever set for her with 
the bait of a pretended separation. 

And so Judith Montressor’s words struck a chord of unac- 
knowledged terror in her listener’s heart, 


KITTY THE RAG. 


199 


If he were sent away to another land, if no longer the same 
air and sunlight held for both the sweet meaning of proximity 
— fanning the cheek and lighting the path of each — even 
though those paths lay far apart ! 

“ Have you heard such a rumor? ” she asked hurriedly. 

Judith Montressor noted the paling cheek, and the sudden 
terror of the questioning glance. 

“No,” she said, “I have not heard it. I only imagined 
it was probable. His Church is not like ours. It never wastes 
its useful servants. It is quick to recognize the value of such 
preachers as Father Considine. That gift of swaying the mul- 
titude is none too common. It has its advantages as well as 
its dangers.” 

“He is wonderful,” said Hermia. 

“He makes one believe in Heaven-ordained apostles. He 
could make one believe in almost anything — for a time,” said 
Judith Montressor. “Poor Mr. Kilmayne and Father Reilly 
have a dangerous rival. Unfortunately, however, enthusiasm 
is a feeling that has no deep root. With all men’s hope of 
God in Heaven, few seem to care to walk with Him on earth.” 

There was silence for some moments. Then Judith Mon- 
tressor spoke again. 

“I don’t know if I ought to say it, Hermia,” she began 
hesitatingly; “but my impression was that, while having the 
dangerous power of making others believe what he said, he did 
not believe in it himself.” 

Hermia started slightly. Some feeling of loyalty prevented 
her acknowledging that Judith was not alone in that impres- 
sion. The fervor and passion of the so-called Father Consi- 
dine had seemed to her also more like the outcome of long- 
born anguish, fighting its way to hope and eternity, than the 
calm assurance of a soul at rest and satisfied with its founda- 
tion of faith. 

“Enthusiasts often deceive themselves,” continued Judith 
Montressor. “ The fervor of zeal on the one hand is as dan- 
gerous as morbid self-condemnation on the other. There is 
some gnawing torture of the soul at work in Father Considine, 
Hermia. His brilliant popularity is a secret known only to 
himself.” 

“ How can you read him so confidently ? ” asked Hermia. 

“ Because I have been a student of human nature for many 
years, and also because I have been behind the scenes of his 
life as well as before the curtaip. He is a desperately unhappy 


200 


KITTY THE BAG, 


man, Hermia, struggling with an endless remorse. Neither 
power, nor honors, nor the praise and reverence of his fellow- 
men can give him any real comfort.” 

And how lightly other men sin and regret,” sighed Her- 
mia. 

“ They are of stronger texture of mind. In looking at and 
listening to this man, it struck me that his remorse for past sin 
was only a degree less than his dread of sinning again.” 

“Judith!” 

“ Ah ! my dearest, don’t look so shocked. Are we not all 
weak ? and has not love sapped the strength of the strongest 
before now? Mind you, I am not asserting that this man 
would willingly palter with temptation, only that he is con- 
scious it exists. It is in the air he breathes — it etherealizes his 
communications with another world. It makes him poet and 
saint in one, and the combination is singularly attractive.” 

“We have never met or spoken since — that night,” said 
Hermia sadly. 

“ I believe it. But you go to hear him preach, and he is 
aware of the fact.” 

She grew crimson. 

“ How do you know? I am sure he has never seen me.” 

“I happened to be there once, and I knew he was as con- 
scious of your presence as if he were gazing on your face. I 
thought that night, Hermia, that it would be wiser if you were 
to leave this place or — or ask him to do so. While he was at 
Limerick he was comparatively at a safe distance, but now that 
he is traveling in this district ” 

“ You forget,” she interrupted, “ that he is a priest ! ” 

“ Oh, my dear, was not Abelard a priest, and is not a priest 
a man? And have you read the history of cardinals and 
bishops for nothing? Whence springs the goodly crop of 
nephews and nieces that are proverbial relatives of the Italian 
Monsignori ? An enforced morality is the weakest chain that a 
creed can forge to bind its order together ; and like all chains, 
moral or religious, it is only as strong as its weakest link.” 

“Judith, you are speaking as if you thought ” 

“I am speaking only as your friend, Hermia — as a woman 
who has seen so much sin and misery spring from what is 
called love that she dreads its very shadow. I know you are 
very proud and very cold, but could you be proud enough and 
cold enough to tread on a man’s bleeding heart, Hermia? 
Could you be deaf alike to his passion and his prayers? ” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


201 


they were — sin.” 

‘ * Sin is only a word that the fire of passion consumes like 
tow. When two lives choose to become a law to one another 
they don’t stop to ask where sin ends — or begins.” 

Hermia had grown deadly pale. “You foresee a danger 
where none exists,” she said. “We have parted for ever on 
this side the grave.” 

“And he is to you only the mouthpiece of Heaven. He 
can bear your soul where once he bore your heart? ” 

“He seems to me a saint in human form. Wherever he 
goes good attends him — blessings follow him. It is impossible 
to listen to him and not believe that God and Heaven do ex- 
ist, that our wider modern day philosophy is a poor stay in the 
hour of need.” 

Judith Montressor looked at her long and silently. In her 
heart she was saying, “Ah, poor Hermia, has my warning 
come too late? ” 


The discussion had taken place after dinner in Hermia’s 
favorite morning room. 

A long silence followed that last remark. The two women 
drank their coffee, and reflected on the meaning of impersonal 
religious fervor according to the bent of their own minds. 

No one knew better than Judith Montressor when to close an 
argument, or cease the discussion of a point. She loved Her- 
mia as a sister, she admired her as few women admire their 
own sex, but she saw the weak points in her character with 
eyes clear-sighted and half fearful. To have evaded shipwreck 
once is not to be exempt from its recurrence. 

The change of years was a very marked change, but even 
the searing hand of sorrow had not marred Hermia’s noble 
beauty. It had only lent a rarer charm to her face — softened 
its pride, subdued its rich coloring, made a picture of a statue, 
as it were, and turned the channels of feeling and of passion 
into the tranquil waters of thought. 

She had read much and studied much. Having no prej- 
udices, her range of subjects had been varied and wide. In 
Judith Montressor she-had a companion after her own heart — 
one to whom the surface of life presented no attraction in com- 
parison with the mystery of its depths. 

The natural result however of this intellectual ardor was to 
lessen her interest in the common phases of life around her. 


202 


KITTY THE BAG. 


She grew impatient of the pettiness and restrictions of social 
obligations, and offended many of her country neighbors by 
her neglect or refusal of invitations, and her own paucity of 
entertainments. 

She still went among the poor and still maintained her staff 
of pensioners, but even these duties were undertaken in a 
critical and investigating mood. She had a strong desire to, 
get at the root of Irish discontent. Surely the people of the' 
country had possibilities within them that only needed a few 
wiser heads and skilful hands to direct into useful channels. 
With all her prejudice against her father’s sternness she could 
not but acknowledge that he had made great improvements. 
Knockrea was one of the finest and best managed properties in 
the county, and in comparison Mount Moira made but a poor 
show. 

The absence of the rightful owner served as an excuse for 
any amount of negligence. Some of the outlying farms were a 
disgrace, and in vain Hermia rode over to rebuke by word, or 
shame them by pointing to the example of others. 

So arduous and uncomfortable had her duties become that 
at last she had written to Desmond Moira entreating him to 
appoint an agent to manage these refractory people. She her- 
self had set going a scheme of cottage industries for the 
women — with the aid of Judith Montressor. She found them 
tractable and industrious enough, but the farmers and laborers 
seemed hopeless. No innovation would they permit. No 
advice would they follow. No example would they acknowl- 
edge to be a good one. 

It was entering into these schemes that had led Lady 
Ellingsworth into an amount of correspondence, discussions, 
and committee meetings which had rendered the employment 
of a secretary imperative. After her friend had left her that 
night she occupied herself in sorting and arranging papers and 
letters, so as to be able to give the necessary instructions to 
Kitty when she should assume her duties next day. While 
doing so she observed an unopened letter lying on the top of 
her bureau. It must have come by the last post and been 
placed there to attract her notice. 

She saw the postmark was Italian and the writing that of 
Desmond Moira. He acknowledged her last check for rent 
and then dashed haphazard into the subject of her letter and 
the troubles afforded by refractory tenants. 

I am sending my nephew over to look into matters,” he 


KITTY THE BAG. 


203 


went on. ** He was educated for the Bar and has been knock- 
ing about Dublin and London for the last four or five years. 
He’s smart and clever, and has written to me saying he’d like 
an agency better than waiting for briefs. I told him he might 
see what he could do for Moira, and if that didn’t suit I’d 
speak to Lord Dunsane about him. So you may expect the 
boy (he’s a fine fellow, and a Moira every inch of him) in a 
week or so. He will call on you at once in order to learn your 
opinion of the tenants, in whom you’ve taken far more in- 
terest than they’re worth, and from whom you need expect (if 
you’ll pardon my frankness) no more thanks than I’ve ever got, 
or ever look for.” 


204 


KITTY THE BAG, 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Hermia replaced the letter in its envelope with a sigh of 
relief. 

If she had any one to work with — a strong directing power 
amenable to the softer side of the question — she felt that a 
great deal might yet be done for Mount Moira. It had all the 
possibilities of Knockrea, added to an older name, and a man- 
sion of almost historical reputation. 

Its beauty and its age had appealed irresistibly to her, and 
she felt a keener interest in it than ever since she had become 
its tenant. 

Above all things she dreaded its coming to the hammer, 
passing away from the family and falling into the clutches of 
some rich parvenu, who had made his money in soap or starch, 
or some other useful and necessary commodity that had im- 
pressed the public by advertisement, or deluded them by the 
arts of adulteration. “ Castles falling and dunghills rising ” 
was a favorite saying of the people, and the country round gave 
ample justification for the aphorism. 

Most of the old families had either lapsed into hopeless 
poverty or sold their estates for whatever they would fetch 
and left the country. Any amelioration of poverty or im- 
provement in the agricultural districts brought about by this 
change was regarded only with disfavor and suspicion. 

In Ireland the proverb of “the King can do wrong” 
found its antitype in the feeling that “ the English can do no 
right.” 

It was almost as hopeless to struggle against the prejudice of 
race as the prejudice of centuries, and Lady Ellingsworth was 
far from being alone in giving way to that feeling after years 
of struggling against it. 

But a sense of new hopefulness came to her with the pros- 
pect of young Moira’s arrival ; and she put the letter safely 
away and went to rest, feeling more nearly content than she 
had done for long. 

The sense of responsibility had weighed h-eavily upon her 
of late. It was pleasant to think some one else would share it 
for the future. 


KITTY TBE RAG. 


205 


She had written to her father to say that she would receive 
Kitty under her roof, but he had taken no notice of the com- 
munication. About noon next day the girl arrived. 

Hermia received her in the morning room, and chatted 
graciously to her for some time before explaining the nature 
of her work and the hours that would have to be devoted to it. 

“You will be quite free in the afternoons,” she said, “ and 
can practice or study or do anything you please. I have very 
few visitors, and when I am alone should like you to dine with 
me. In the evenings, if my friend, Mrs. Montressor, is not 
here, you will also be at liberty to work, or read, or sing to 
me. You are not to neglect any of your accomplishments, 
especially as you wish to make your own way in the world.” 

Kitty listened silently. The ease with which she had ac- 
complished this first step toward independence, in some degree 
lessened her gratitude toward the bestower of it. There was 
no doubt that Mr. Marsden had some strong interest in her, 
let him deny it as he pleased, and that Lady Ellingsworth 
knew of it and shared it she was equally convinced. 

However, she said nothing to betray those suspicions, and 
assented quietly to all Lady Ellingsworth 's suggestions and 
orders. The time for rebellion was not yet, but doubtless it 
would come. 

A servant showed her to her room, and she was delighted 
with its comfort and simplicity. 

Everything was sweet and fresh and dainty. A writing- 
table stood in the window, and a shelf for books hung against 
the wall. The hangings and curtains were of chintz, the fur- 
niture of maple wood. Her box had arrived and she unpacked 
its contents and put them away and filled the shelf with her 
school books and prizes. 

Then she looked out from the window at the now well-kept 
garden and the belt of woods in the distance, at the hills 
bathed in sunshine, the picturesque pile of the ruined abbey, 
the silver glow of the winding river. 

It was all so beautiful and peaceful that her heart throbbed 
with delight. A new house, a new life, what did they not 
promise ? 

She felt as if she had cast the shackles of the old from off 
her limbs and that nothing would induce her to take them up 
again. When she turned from the window and looked at 
herself in the mirror a thrill of gratified pride ran through her 
veins. 


S06 


£:iTTt kA(^. 


She smoothed her burnished hair and brushed the dust from 
her simple black gown. It fitted her to perfection, and its 
very plainness only seemed to show up her lovely coloring 
and her perfect skin. Then she went downstairs and found 
that Lady Ellingsworth had left rough drafts of some half- 
dozen letters for her to write, a task which she soon ac- 
complished. 

She wrote a bold, firm hand, easy to read if possessed of no 
special grace ; but Lady Ellingsworth pronounced herself quite 
satisfied when she returned and looked over the correspondence 
awaiting her signature. 

Then luncheon was announced, and they went into the din- 
ing-room. None of Lady Ellingsworth’s servants knew Kitty, 
or had heard her history. The girl showed not the least em- 
barrassment before them, or seemed in any degree put out by 
the change from Biddy’s humble table to this costly and well- 
appointed one. 

Hermia watched her closely and wdth increasing wonder. 
Where had she learned her manners, her perfect ease and com- 
posure ? No fault could be found with her so far, and she was 
half pleased and half annoyed that such was the case. It 
would be no easy matter to treat this self-possessed and queenly 
young person as a mere paid dependant. She found herself 
wondering what Judith Montressor would think. She was 
coming to dinner that evening and would doubtless give her 
opinion. 

After luncheon Lady Ellingsworth went for a drive, and 
Kitty amused herself by practising her singing in the great 
unoccupied drawing-room. 

She was astonished at the difference in her voice when she 
threw it out into this vast pace. Its richness and volume of 
tone almost startled her. It had never sounded like this in 
the little close schoolroom or on the pupils’ platform at break- 
ing-up time. 

Just as she was revelling in the execution of some particularly 
brilliant passages, the door opened, and the footman announced 
a visitor. 

The girl started to her feet and saw a young man standing 
by the door. 

He looked at her with such astonishment that she half 
laughed. 

** Was thsLt^iPU singing? ” he exclaimed. By Jove ! ” 


KITTY tht: ra^. So7 

** Yes,” she said. ‘‘lam afraid I was making a great deal 
of noise. I was practising.” 

“Practising!” he said. “I never heard such singing! 
It was marvelous. What on earth do you call your voice? ” 

“It is a contralto — only I have been told it is of unusual 
compass,” said Kitty, coloring with embarrassment beneath the 
admiration of his glance, and wondering who he was. 

It seemed to occur to him that some account of himself was 
needful. 

“ I called to see Lady Ellingsworth,” he said genially. “I 
am Laurence Moria, the nephew of the owner of Mount 
Moira, you know. You, I suppose, are Lady Ellingsworth’s 
daughter.” 

“Oh, no,” she said with sudden hauteur; “I am only 
Lady Ellingsworth’s companion.” 

“ By Jove ! ” he said again and pulled his fair moustache 
awkwardly, and looked at her and then at his boots and won- 
dered what the deuce he could say next. For this young lady 
looked far too haughty and dignified for mere friendliness, 
and she had never asked him to sit down. 

In real truth Kitty was somewhat embarrassed. She had 
never entertained a visitor before and was wondering what she 
ought to do. 

“You wished to see Lady Ellingsworth, I suppose ? ” she 
said. “ She is out driving, but she said she would be in at 
five o’clock. Can you wait ? ” 

“ Certainly,” he answered, lessening the distance between 
them and approaching the windows which looked out on a 
smooth well-kept lawn. “ How this place has been improved,” 
he said presently. “ When last I was here it was in a most 
ramshackle condition. Lady Ellingsworth has done won- 
ders.” 

“ I have only come here to-day for the first time,” said 
Kitty. “ But she told me she had tried to improve it a little.” 

“ A little ! Why, she must have spent a fortune on it — and 
for other people’s benefit. What singular taste ! ” 

Then he turned to the girl with his pleasant smile. 

“ Do you know,” he said, “ why I am here? ” 

“Indeed I do not,” answered Kitty, moving away to the 
music stool again. “I believed it was to see Lady Ellings- 
worth. Did you not say so? ” 

“ l77tprimis — yes. But chiefly to help Lady Ellingsworth. 
The tenants are getting a little too much for her. I should 


KITTY TEE RA^. 


m 

think they would be too much for any one from what I re- 
member of them, and so I have been sent to keep them in 
order.” 

She looked at him critically. 

“ Do you think you will be able to do that ? ” she a*sked. 

Well, that’s not an easy question to answer. But I mean 
to have a try. As I am not quite a stranger I may have a bet- 
ter chance than the regular professional agent.” 

She remained silent. She had never spoken to a young 
man of Laurence Moira’s position yet, and she felt a difficulty 
in carrying on a conversation. 

He on his part was studying her intently and critically, as 
was a habit of his. She was very young, he thought, to be 
obliged to work for herself — strangely young to take such a 
post as she had mentioned. 

About her beauty there was no question, but Laurence Moira 
had seen so many beautiful Irish girls that he had lost some of 
the inflammability of young manhood. 

The silence grew almost uncomfortable at last. Per- 
haps,” he suggested, ‘‘you would not mind singing to me 
again ? It is not often one has the chance of hearing such a 
voice.” 

“ Certainly, if you wish,” she said, turning over a pile of 
songs on the grand piano. “ But I don’t really sing well ; I 
know I have the voice, but not the training, style — what it is 
that makes the difference between singing, and a singer.” 

“lam quite content,” he said, “ with the singing.” 

She struck a few chords. Her playing was far below her 
vocal abilities and suffered by comparison. 

“ Do you know this ? ” she asked, and gave out the melody 
of “ Shule Agra.” 

Know it ! He had known it from his cradle. But what 
spell did this girl contrive to throw around such common- 
place words and music ? What brought the tears to his eyes 
as the rich full notes throbbed in the silence of the room ? 

Kitty’s voice was almost phenomenal. She herself was not 
half aware of its wonder or its power. As an organ to the 
touch of the skilled player, so those glorious notes rose and 
fell, trembled or sank into silence at the merest effort of the 
singer. There was no break in the compass, every note rang 
full and true from the lowest to the highest. From the low E 
to the B in alt. it ranged, and its use seemed as easy as speech. 
Young Moira grew perfectly wild with enthusiasm. 


KITTY THE BAG, ‘ 


209 


‘^The idea,” he said, any one with a voice like that 
going out as a companion. Why, you are a born artist ! If 
you studied two years in Italy you would come out as a star on 
the concert platform, unless you preferred grand opera. 
Don’t think I’m talking wildly. I’ve heard hosts of singers — 
the best of our day, some of them — but I’ve never heard such 
a voice as yours. What were your teachers about that they 
did not tell you ? ” 

“ I believe they didn’t care much about it,” she said. “ It 
was not ladylike singing, you see — not the sort one hears from 
a schoolgirl. That was the only standard required of us.” 

*‘But now,” he said eagerly — ‘‘now that you have left 
school — surely you will study music professionally. What 
does Lady Ellingsworth say ? Surely she would not keep you 
in your present position if she heard your voice.” 

“She has not heard it,” said Kitty. “But perhaps she 
would not share your opinion even if she did.” 

“ She couldn’t help it,” he answered. “No one could.” 

“ But to go to Italy,” she said, “and to study as you say, 
would cost a great deal of money, and I am very poor — and 
I have no claim on any one. It is not possible.” 

“There are plenty of people,” he said, “who would ad- 
vance the money for your musical education if once they 
heard your voice. It would be a very safe investment even for 
an impresario." 

Her eyes flashed with hope. “Oh!” she said, “if it 
could be — if it were only possible 1 ” 

“ We must try what we can do,” he said heartily. “ If I 
were only a rich man I would advance the money directly — as 
a mere matter of speculation. I am as sure of your success as 
if I heard you enthralling all London ! ” 

She smiled. “But you forget no principal parts in opera 
are written for a contralto, and two stars cannot shine in the 
little firmament of the stage at the same moment.” 

“ Well, there is always the concert room 1 There, at least, 
you have the firmament to yourself.” 

“ Yes, I should like that. And it would not be such hard 
work. But then, neither would it bring the fame I ” 

“ You must not be too ambitious,” he said. “ Ah ! here 
is a carriage coming up the drive. Is that Lady Ellings- 
worth ? ” 

Kitty rose and went over to the window. “Yes,” she 
said ; then added hurriedly, “ Please do not say anything to 
14 


210 


KITTY THE BAG. 


her about my voice. I want to have an unprejudiced opin- 
ion.” 

Mine was that,” he said smiling, 
express myself badly. I mean — her opinion on first 
hearing me — without ” 

Without praise in advance? I understand; I will say 
nothing, I promise you.” 


mTTt TEE RAG. 


‘211 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Lady Ellingsworth was surprised to find that young Moira 
had arrived already. She greeted him very cordially, and or- 
dered tea to be brought in, and asked Kitty to pour it out for 
them. 

Where are you going to stay, Mr. Moira?" she said as 
he took his cup from the girl’s hand. “ Your uncle said 
nothing about that, and I was going to write to ask you to put 
up here for the present. There is no house I know of on the 
estate that would be at all suitable." 

“Oh, I am not particular," he said genially; “and I am 
going to put up at Larry Dunn’s farm. It is a tidy enough 
place and at a very convenient distance from most of the re- 
fractory tenants. I shall be able to ride over when needful. 
I could not think of trespassing on your hospitality." 

“But for to-night?" she urged. “Surely you will dine 
and stay the night. I could not think of your going off to 
Larry’s farm just on your arrival ; it would be a sad slur on 
Irish hospitality." 

He looked admiringly at the beautiful woman. He thought 
he had never seen any one so lovely, or with such a charming 
grace of manner. 

“ I cannot be churlish enough to refuse you. Lady Ellings- 
worth," he said, “ if you are quite sure that I am not putting 
you to inconvenience." 

“ There is room and to spare here, as you know," she said 
smiling. “ It means nothing but preparing a bed." 

“Only my clothes !" he" exclaimed. “I sent my port- 
manteau on to Larry Dunn’s in a cart." 

“ We will excuse you for appearing in ordinary dress, and 
I will send one of the men to bring your luggage here." 

“ Ah ! I see it is useless to place obstacles in the way. 
Lady Ellingsworth. I give in — only too readily." 

“ That is all settled," she said, “ and as we don’t dine till 
half-past seven o’clock perhaps you would like to walk through 
the grounds. Our business matters can wait till to-morrow 
morning." 


KITTY THE UAO. 


212 

She rose as she spoke. She had not yet removed her bonnet 
or given orders about his room and a slight addition to the 
usual simple dinner. 

Her glance fell on Kitty. Won’t you go out too, my 
dear?” she said kindly. “You have been in the house all 
day, and you doubtless will enjoy exploring the place. There 
are lovely bits in the park. I dare say Mr. Moira knows them 
as well as I do.” 

“ Oh ! it’s many years since I was here,” he said. “ And 
then I’m afraid it was more mischief than appreciation that led 
us into the park — or the orchard either. Well, come along. 
Miss ” He paused. 

“Maguire,” said Lady Ellingsworth. “I thought Kitty 
had introduced herself.” 

“I think we did without that formality,” he said smiling. 
“ Miss Maguire, then. I’ll see if my memory serves me at all.” 

“ I must fetch my hat,” she said, and she left the room with 
a slight graceful bow. 

“What a lovely girl!” exclaimed Laurence Moira. 
“ Surely she is very young to be a companion. Lady Ellings- 
worth ? ’ ’ 

“Oh! she mentioned that? Yes, she is young, Mr. 
Moira, but I took her out of charity really, for she was in 
a very humble position and anxious to do better for herself. 
She has been well educated ; it seemed a pity that she should 
not rise above the level of the village folk.” 

Laurence Moira looked surprised. “ L should never have 
guessed she was not a lady,” he said. “ Do you mean to say 
her parents are only of the people ? ” 

“ Yes, I believe so.” 

“Well, one comes across strange things in Ireland,” he 
said. “But you certainly surprise me. She was singing 
when I came in, and ” He stopped abruptly, remem- 

bering his promise. 

“Oh, was she?” said Lady Ellingsworth indifferently. 
“ She is fond of music, she told me, but I have not heard her 
play or sing yet. Oh, I hear her coming. I hope, Mr. 
Moira, you don’t object to her walking with you? ” 

“Object? My dear lady, I am not thin skinned at all. A 
charming girl is to me always a cliarming girl whatever her 
station in life. All the same, you may trust me. I shall take 
no advantage of what you have told me. I can’t alter my 
opinion because of your communication.” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


213 


Kitty’s entrance prevented further reply. 

In his secret heart Laurence Moira thought it was a little 
unkind of Lady Ellingsvvorth to have given him so broad a 
hint, but then, he told himself, she might have feared his find- 
ing out who Kitty was for himself. He walked on by the girl’s 
side in comparative silence, the strains of “ Shule Agra ” still 
ringing in his ears, with its plaintive cry of sorrow and its 
tender lament. Genius is no respecter of persons, no more is 
beauty. He knew that well enough. Yet it did not check a 
wish that this lovely young creature was well-born as well as 
gifted. 

Then he saw her eyes, and the old couplet came into his 
head : — 


Those sparkling eyes so wild and gay. 

They nnove not in the light of love. 

<*And a good thing too perhaps,” he reflected. *‘She 
must keep herself heartwhole if she wishes to make her way in 
the world.” 

The information he had acquired about her did not alter his 
manner in the least degree. It was — if anything — even more 
studiously polite than usual. Not for the world would he have 
hurt her feelings or presumed on their easy intimacy. 

He noted that she was very reserved about herself, and would 
tell him nothing of her early days. They discussed the ques- 
tion of her becoming a singer with a great deal of interest. It 
seemed to him the very best thing she could do, and he told 
her that if Lady Ellingsworth was interested in her future she 
would certainly assist it. Once she heard her sing there could 
be no two opinions about what her career ought to be. 

They roamed through the park and then the flower garden 
and terrace, and returned to the house just as the dressing bell 
was ringing. 

“ I shall not come in to dinner,” said the girl as they 
entered the hall side by side; “ I am not permitted to do 
that when there is company.” 

He looked surprised. 

<‘But I,” he said, “ am not company, surely.” 

*‘Oh ! it’s not you only; a friend of Lady Ellingsworth’s 
is dining here also, and they are to sit in judgment upon me 
afterwards.” 

''You must be 'Orpheus the Shades,’ ” he said laughing, 
" and disarm them,” 


214 


KITTY THE RAG. 


Ah ! ” she said, “ your opinion is too flattering, I think. 
I hardly expect they will indorse it.” 

‘'Let ‘ Shule Agra’ be your wand of enchantment,” he 
said. “ It would melt even a heart of stone.” 

She smiled. She was already softened and subdued by 
this new influence. For the first time in her life she had 
learnt that she had not only the charm of sex, but a power 
far higher and more potent with which to make her way 
in the world, and seize those prizes of fame and fortune 
for which she longed. And a man had been her first 
pioneer. 

No wonder she felt grateful. No wonder she went up 
to her quiet, pretty room glad and hopeful, as in all her life 
she had never been. 

She seated herself by the open window in the lovely 
glow of twilight. A bird fluttered against the rose-trellised 
walk below. The evening star showed itself like a pale 
glow-worm in the rich saffron -tinted sky. That lovely 
hush of the closing day was like a spell upon earth and 
air. It seemed as if nothing unholy or impure could 
dwell within its reach. 

Kitty gave herself up to the luxury of such dreams as 
never yet had filled her brain. Dreams of a glorious future 
when she should have risen by right of her own gifts to the 
heights of fame. She forgot her poverty, her birth and all 
it typified ; forgot that she was only here on sufferance, and 
that this experiment might only be another fairy tale — to 
find its end in as dull prose as that other in which she had 
held brief revel. 

Youth is essentially self-delusive. It overlooks obvious 
truths in favor of impossibilities, and turns aside diffi- 
culties as being merely trivial delays. It was only when a 
servant came to say that Kitty’s dinner was awaiting her in 
the morning-room that she remembered where she was, and 
recognized with a sudden truth that between her and those 
among whom she lived and moved “on sufferance” there 
was a great gulf fixed. 

To bridge that gulf by some means, fair or foul, was the 
one resolve in her heart as she went downstairs and took 
her place at the table prepared for her. 

It was better than her old life — it was better than she had 
ever dared to hope — it was better than Biddy and the 
cottage, the humble farm, and the ragged clothes ; but it 


KITTY THE BAG. 


215 


not what she wished, it was not what she intended to get 
for herself. It might serve as a beginning, even as in 
the old fairy tale the cottage served the fisherman’s wife 
better than the hovel, but like that prototype of feminine 
ambition Kitty would ask for more and yet more — the sum 
of her discontent only increasing instead of diminishing with 
each granted desire. 


She finished her meal and rang for the tray to be removed. 
She supposed she would be summoned to the drawing-room 
when she was wanted. 

She had no idea of the rules or etiquette of life lived by 
people such as Lady Ellingsworth. The lamps were lit 
now and she took a book and began to read. It was 
an hour later when Lady Ellingsworth sent for her, and 
Kitty obeyed the summons with some trepidation. Why, 
she could not have said, but she had formed a prejudice 
against Mrs. Montressor. 

The two women were sitting by the open window sipping 
their coffee. Laurence Moira had not yet left the dining- 
room. 

They both looked at Kitty as she crossed the room 
toward them. She wore the same simple black gown — she 
had no other — and they were both in demi-toilette, looking 
in her eyes so distinguished and so far superior to herself that 
all her confidence vanished. 

Judith Montressor gave a faint exclamation as the girl 
drew near. 

Something in her face, her carriage, struck her as strangely 
familiar. It had nothing to do with'the change wrought by 
those years of absence — nothing to do with the transition 
from girl to maiden ; it was a curious inexplicable likeness 
to another face — and yet she had never thought Hermia 
resembled her father. 

“ Kitty,” said Lady Ellingsworth, ^^this is my friend, Mrs. 
Montressor. I have been telling her about you. Of course 
she has often seen you, but I am sure like myself she would 
hardly have recognized you again.” 

Indeed I would not,” said Judith, holding out her hand 
cordially. ^*How you have grown — ^nd — and altered,” she 
continued, 


216 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Would you like some coffee?” asked Hermia, offering 
her a cup. 

The girl took it and sat down. 

She felt embarrassed and ill at ease. Fine lady manners 
do not after all come by instinct. 

Hermia noticed her confusion and left her to herself. 
After all she could not quite forget Kitty as the ragged 
picturesque child running wild about the village, and it was 
not possible to treat her as an equal. 

She and Judith resumed their discussion, which turned on 
young Moira, and Kitty listened silently and drank her 
coffee and felt very uncomfortable and subdued, and wished 
that she had not been asked into the drawing-room. 

It was a relief to all when Laurence Moira entered at last, 
bringing with him that brisk, breezy sense of life and in- 
terests that the male element always does bring into the 
feminine atmosphere, let them deny it as they please. 

The conversation became general, until he asked if Kitty 
would not sing. Lady Ellingsworth echoed the wish, and 
he followed the girl to the piano and opened it. 

No music, thank you,” she said, as he took up the book 
of Irish songs from its place. “ I never use notes for my na- 
tional songs.” 

‘^‘Shule Agra,* mind,” he said, and then left her and 
went over to the window, the better to enjoy the effect. 

Kitty had not sung the first half-dozen bars before both 
Hermia and Judith turned, and gazed at each other and then 
at the girl in utter amazement. 

Such a voice, as Laurence Moira had said, was almost 
phenomenal ; they had never heard its like. As the plaintive 
wail rang out at the conclusion of each verse : — 

Go, thu, thu Mavourneen Slaun ! 

Shule, Shule, Shule Agra ! 

the tears were rolling down their cheeks. It was no question 
of false sentiment — it was simply that the lovely notes went 
straight to the heart, and thrilled its every nerve to a delight 
that was almost pain. 

It was the voix de iarmes in its most perfect and exquisite 
phase, fresh with the freshness of youth and scarcely conscious 
of its own power. 

The girl herself guessed nothing of the effect it had OU 


KITTY THE RAG. 


217 


her hearers. Singing to her was no more effort that speak- 
ing, and if her voice-production was not exactly what 
would satisfy a professional teacher, it, at least, had the 
most extraordinary effects upon an audience that asked no 
more than the continuance of those exquisite tones which 
gave so weird a pathos to her national melodies. 

Lady Ellingsworth rose hurriedly and approached her as she 
ceased. 

Why, Kitty,” she exclaimed, “ your voice is wonderful. 
I had no idea you could sing like this ! ” 

The girl colored with pleasure. “I told Mr. Marsden,” 
she said, “but he would not listen.” 

Lady Ellingsworth regarded her thoughtfully. “Would you 
care,” she asked, “ to make music your profession — to become 
a singer? ” 

“ I should like nothing better,” answered Kitty. 

“I must talk to my father about it,” said Hermia. 
“Meanwhile, sing again if you are not tired. It is really a 
treat to hear such a voice.” 

She stood by the piano while the girl’s fingers wandered into 
the prelude to “ Oft in the Stilly Night,” which she sang even 
more exquisitely than she had sung “ Shule Agra.” 

Hermia returned to Judith Montressor’s side. Their eyes 
met. 

“ It is perfectly marvelous,” they said. 

But Hermia, as she half closed her eyes and leant back in 
the rapt enjoyment of listening, wondered why a note here 
and there recalled a boy’s voice soaring up to the roof of a 
village chapel in the “ Salutaris Hostia” of the Mass. How 
many years ago she had heard that voice ! Why did its 
haunting echoes live again in the one she heard to-night ? 


218 


KITTY THE BAG, 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Kitty retired early to her room, and the three who remained 
behind were conscious of a restraint lifted by her departure 
from the conversation. 

Lady Ellingsworth began to speak to Laurence Moira of her 
difficulties with the tenants, and her fruitless efforts to alter 
their improvident habits. 

He seemed however more amused than disturbed by her 
difficulties. 

“ I don’t really see why you should worry yourself, Lady 
Ellingsworth,” he said. “After all, they are accountable to 
my uncle, and he should have left a responsible steward to 
look after them.” 

“ But 1 begged him to let me see what I could do,” she said 
eagerly. “ And at first they seemed so willing to work their 
best, and so good humored and content, but now — well, I can 
really do nothing with them. It seems as if some underhand 
influence was at work and that all my good intentions are mis- 
represented. Your uncle hasn’t had any rents at all this 
year.” 

“But,” he said, “ I thought it was only the house and the 
home farm you had taken? ” 

“You mean, that I have rented. Yes; but I promised to 
look after the estate generally. I thought it would be some- 
thing to occupy my time.” 

It struck Laurence Moira as somewhat strange that a woman, 
young and beautiful, and with everything to make her popular, 
should require more occupation than her home and society 
afforded. 

“The country altogether is in a very unsatisfactory condi- 
tion,” he said. “ Political prejudices are again to the fore, 
and those who call themselves patriots are as usual proving the 
worthlessness of their title.” 

“The Irish are always their own worst foes,” observed 
Mrs. Montressor. “They are fond of saying the English 
can’t understand them, but do they allow themselves to be 
understood? Anything good in the way of art or commerce 


KITTY THE BAG. 


219 


is whisked off to a foreign market. Their men of genius fol- 
low the example of the absentee landlords. Intellectual famine 
has improverished the country on the one hand, and agrarian 
laws on the other, while religion has added its quota to the 
universal misery by leaving the peasantry steeped in the deg- 
radation of their superstitious and bigoted beliefs.” 

“ Do you believe, then, that religion and priesthood mean 
one and the same thing? ” he asked. 

“Indeed, no,” she. said eagerly, “otherwise the world 
would indeed be in a sorry condition. But that is what the 
priesthood tries to impress on its followers.” 

‘ ‘ Mrs. Montressor is a warm partisan of unprejudiced 
truth,” said Hermia. “ I tell her she ought to found an order 
for herself, and become the exponent of her own opinions.” 

“ But before we run down the priests,” said Laurence Moira, 
“ don’t you think we should give them the credit of best un- 
derstanding the needs of the people they rule ? Of course, 
there is no doubt they do rule them. No one who has lived 
among the Irish can doubt it. They fear their priests more 
than their ostensible rulers, more than any government, and 
the greatest stumbling-block to English authority or English 
influence has been the difference of religion between the two 
countries.” 

“ I am beginning to find that out,”, said Hermia quietly. 
“But as Ireland becomes a reading, she will also become a 
thinking country, and surely a people so quick of wit and keen 
of sight will soon discover the errors that have enslaved them, 
and laugh at the superstitions that have so long enfeebled their 
reasoning powers.” 

Laurence Moira shook his head. “This century at least 
will never see such enlightenment,” he said, “and even the 
next may scarcely witness its acknowledgment. The national 
spirit may rise above the narrow distinctions of party or race 
it will hardly soar above the trammels of creed.” 

“But priest and Protestant meet now on friendly terms,” 
said Hermia. 

“Yes,” he said laughing. “ But may not another sort of 
* national spirit ’ account for that? ” 

“I am ashamed of you, Mr. Moira,” said Hermia smiling. 
“But it reminds me that I have forgotten to tell you that the 
‘ national spirit ’ is awaiting yourself in the library, also that 
you are at liberty to smoke there if you wish. I am sorry I 
have no cigars to offer you. It is so long since I have had any 


220 


KITTY THE BAG, 


gentlemen visitors that I have ceased to provide for these male 
weaknesses.” 

“ Thank you,” he said gratefully. I have come provided 
for all emergencies. At what time to-morrow are we to go 
into these matters, Lady Ellingsworth ? ” 

VVe breakfast at nine,” she said. Will ten o’clock suit 
you?” 

“Perfectly. I am quite at your service, and I can ride over 
to Larry Dunn’s afterwards.” 

“ If you like I will ride over with you,” said Hermia. 
“We can start directly after luncheon.” 

He agreed with alacrity, and then bade them both good- 
night. 

“You mustn’t leave just yet, Judith,” said Hermia as the 
door closed. “I ordered the carriage to come around at 
eleven. Sit down now and let us have a word about Kitty. 
Did you ever hear such singing ? ” 

“Indeed, I can truthfully say I never did,” answered 
Judith Montressor. “The girl’s vocation is evident. Even 
young Moira seemed convinced of that ! ” 

“Yes, he was very enthusiastic,” said Hermia thoughtfully. 

“What a pleasant young fellow he is,” said Judith. “So 
cheery and unaffected. After all,” she added with a faint 
sigh, “how much there is in * youth.’ Just the fact. The 
consciousness of being young, of looking forward, of hope 
and expectation.” 

“ And illusion,” said Hermia bitterly. 

“ True ! but not having learned its worthlessness we regard 
it as reality. But to return to Kitty. I must confess to being 
utterly astonished at the change in her. She is most beauti- 
ful ; and not only that, she has a natural grace and the instincts 
of adaptability. With those gifts and her wonderful voice 
that young person will make her way in the world.” 

“ I am sure of that,” said Hermia. “ I was only wonder- 
ing whether I had better keep her here for a few months and 
accustom her to this sort of life, or ask my father to continue 
her musical education.” 

“Her voice has been well trained, I should say,” observed 
Mrs. Montressor. “ But her manners are somewhat gauche. 
It would do her a great deal of good to live for a time among 
refined surroundings, especially if she adopts music as a pro- 
fession. Besides, did not your father say that he had done all 
he intended to do for her ? ’ ’ 


KITTY TEE RAG. 


221 


** Yes; but if he knew of this wonderful talent he would 
surely alter his intentions,” said Hermia. **It is hardly fair 
to the girl to have done so much, and then leave off at a crit- 
ical juncture.” 

‘‘You must persuade him to hear her,” said Judith Mon- 
tressor. “ Is he still as averse to visitors and company ? ” 

“Yes. He refused even Mr. Kilmayne the other day.” 

“ It is very strange,” said Judith. 

“ It is very bad for him, I think,” answered Hermia. 

“ You should try to persuade him to see young Moira. He 
would do him good. Besides, they would have a common in- 
terest in the wrongs of the peasantry.” 

“ My father will never regard them in any light but that of 
his own prejudices,” said Hermia sadly. “Arguments are 
useless ; I suppose one must be Irish to understand the Irish.” 

“ Well,” said Judith with a smile, “ I confess I have never 
known a people whose character is so anomalous. You come 
across families so imbued with the spirit of their ancestors that 
their whole lives are regulated by what has been done and said 
centuries before. Even the veneration they show for superior 
knowledge springs from quite reprehensible ignorance. That 
slavish content with what ‘ has been ’ is the bane of the peas- 
ant. A little Latin is even a more dangerous thing than ‘ a lit- 
tle learning’ in Ireland.” 

Hermia rose and began to pace the room with a sort of de- 
spairing hopelessness on her beautiful face. “Oh!” she 
cried, “ the uselessness of life — love — everything I And one’s 
poor little efforts, Judith. I meant to do so much, to help, 
encourage, befriend these thriftless, foolish creatures. And 
what does it all amount to? Then look at my father’s present 
situation, one of mutual distrust and dislike, and yet how much 
he has improved the district, and what an amount of extra 
wages and employment is due to him. Yet his life has been 
attempted, and he is now at enmity with the very class he has 
tried to benefit.” 

“ ‘ Do good for good’s sake,’ ” quoted Judith Montressor. 
“To try and benefit our fellows because it addends to our own 
credit or comfort always strikes me as a form of selfishness. 
It is quite as unworthy as the desire of getting to heaven be- 
cause it is a pleasanter place than hell. The surface view of 
both proceedings is certainly highly moral, but the motives — 
what about them ? ” 

“ ‘ Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,’ cried the preacher ! ” 


1^22 


^IfTt TEE RAG. 


<*Yes; but he still taught the people knowledge,” said 
Judith ; and I suppose we must be content to follow his ex- 
ample.” 

“ But is it knowledge? ” exclaimed Hermia. “ We spend 
one half our lives in unlearning what we have been taught in 
the other half— either by scholastic traditions or worldly ex- 
perience. And just as we begin to see that it was useless or 
imperfect, or altogether wrong, it is about time to lay down the 
burden of life ! ” 

“The perpetual enigma,” murmured Judith. “Our vary- 
ing moods — our contradictory natures — our passionate hearts, 
bound up in the physiological and spiritual mystery of our- 
selves. Ah, Hermia, haven’t we discussed it all ad nauseutn 
without result ? ” 

“ Perhaps we should try to put more into our lives,” said 
Hermia dreamily. “ Thoughts into words — words into ac- 
tions. There must be some way, Judith ! ” 

“I am inclined to think so,” answered Judith gravely. 
Then she smiled oddly. “And I am inclined to think that 
young man has found it,” she added. 

“ Who — Laurence Moira ? ” 

“Yes — watch him. Study him, Hermia. It may give you 
a new interest or widen the old ones.” 

Hermia looked at her steadily as if seeking some ulterior 
motive in the words. 

“He made me feel so old,” she said drearily; “so old, 
Judith. And what has not been a blunder in my life looks a 
series of pretences.” 

“Ah, dearest, don’t speak like that! It makes me 
wretched.” 

Hermia saw the tears gather in her eyes. 

“ That wail of the ^ Shule Agra ’ keeps ringing in my ears,” 
she said rising suddenly. “ How strange that a young igno- 
rant heart could lend so true an interpretation to what must 
have been unknown as yet.” 

Hermia was silent. She thought of that other voice that 
had been capable of swaying a listening multitude with its 
soul- thrilling vibrations — she thought of the haunting echo in 
the girl’s tones to-night. It seemed to her that she was always 
to be haunted by some ghost from that past. That its full- 
pulsed, passionate memories were never to be stilled — quite. 

Here, again, suddenly and unexpectedly something had re- 
called them. That strange feeling, half curiosity, half repug- 


KITTY TUK BAG. 


m 


nance, with which she had regarded Kitty, returned in full 
force. The girl had only been a day in the house as yet, and 
already was a disturbing presence. 

Her beauty, her genius — for it was genius in a way — seemed 
to clamor for preeminence, and life was all in warfare against 
her. It was useless, Hermia felt, to argue that she at least had 
no responsibility in the matter. The claims of womanhood, 
of charity, of the bonds of sex alike clamored for her notice, 
and something in the untamed spirit that looked out from those 
young eyes reminded her of her own youth — her own unhap- 
piness — of some strange mystery oppressing those early days 
and making her an alien in the midst of home ties. The sor- 
row for her own neglected youth had made her infinitely piti- 
ful to the young of her own sex in those later days — infinitely 
gentle to sins and sinners, despite her pride and seeming cold- 
ness. 

** I shall keep her with me for a time,” she said suddenly. 

Judith Montressor started. She had been gazing out at the 
starlit sky, and her thoughts had drifted far away on a sea of 
her own memories. “ Keep her ; who do you mean — Kitty ? ” 
she asked. 

** Yes, I think it will be best,” said Hermia. 

** Unless she should fall in love with Laurence Moira,” sug- 
gested Judith. 

never thought of that,” said Hermia uneasily. ** But 
they need not meet often. It is not as if he were staying here. ” 

** Irishmen are susceptible, you know,” said Judith with her 
quiet smile, *<and Kitty is very lovely. I never saw a more 

beautiful face except ” 

Whose ? ” asked Hermia quickly and uneasily. 

Judith’s eyes fell. For a moment she did not answer, then 
she said slowly, ‘‘Are you considered like your father, 
Hermia? ” 

“I? Oh! no. I take after my mother’s side of the 
house.” 

“The carriage is here, if you plaze, my lady,” announced 
Garry, the footman, at the door. 

And in saying good-night, and arranging for their next 
meeting, Hermia never noticed that her question had not been 
answered. 


224 


KITTY THE RAO, 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

The advent of Laurence Moira seemed to bring a new inter- 
est into Hermia’s life from the first day of their acquaintance. 
His brisk, breezy way of looking at things, the quickness with 
which he arranged or settled matters that to her had seemed 
complicated, all woke in her a sense of relief, and, while easing 
her difficulties, made her wonder they should ever have seemed 
a burden. 

As they rode side by side to the farm of the refractory Corri- 
gans, they talked chiefly of the eternal Irish Question” — 
that question which seems destined never to be answered satis- 
factorily by policy or power. Laurence had evidently all an 
Irishman’s sympathy with the Irish people, as well as a keen 
insight into the cause of various follies and weaknesses which 
have led to so many disasters. Taking the physical state of 
the peasantry from its various periods of moral and mental 
wretchedness, its destitution and ignorance, he pointed out that 
the crimes were not so blamable as their cause. To begin with, 
the Irish were almost two centuries behind the Scotch or Eng- 
lish people in elementary education, and their very ignorance 
had been punished while they were endeavoring to combat it. 
For some reason best known to themselves, it had suited the 
priests to keep their flocks in a semisavage and misinformed 
condition, and, to a class of persons always remarkable for 
strong religious and political prejudices, such ignorance and 
superstition could only breed dangerous theories that had their 
results in social errors, and general turbulence and disaster. 

‘‘I hardly think,” said Laurence, “that any other race 
would have been as meek and patient under suffering as our 
maligned Celt. With scarcely any personal or domestic com- 
fort — with bad rulers, bad teachers, bad influences at work 
around and about him, with a hereditary hatred of laws that 
were alike unsuitable and unjust — the marvel is that violence 
and crime have not been universal instead of only factional or 
political.” 

“Do you think a better system of education would have 
prevented those crimes ? ” asked Lady Ellingsworth. 


kiTtr The uag. 


225 


I am sure of it. The crimes after all were not so much 
individual as confederate. The perpetrators were not hardened 
criminals, but simply the tools of a party, and scarcely more 
blamable than is the gun in the hand of the marksman. You 
know how easily swayed these people are by the emotion of the 
moment — how bound together by love of country and home — 
how long enslaved by ignorance and ruled by spiritual fear and 
the lowest forms of superstition. How could the calm, prosaic, 
order-loving mind of a totally distinct race hope to govern them 
to their own satisfaction ? " 

“ Do you think, then, if they were allowed their own rulers 
they would be satisfied ? " 

^‘For a time — yes. But whether the rulers would succeed 
in settling party difficulties, mending broken laws, and estab- 
lishing order and morality instead of discontent, I very much 
doubt.” 

<‘But if they were happier,” sighed Hermia. *‘Oh ! the 
scenes I have witnessed, the poverty and misery I have seen ! ” 

Laurence Moira looked at her troubled face in some wonder. 

Happiness,” he said, is not usually a matter considered 
by governments. Discipline and order are all they seek to 
enforce. Fancy, however, a set of men ruling Ireland who 
would introduce the Ribbon Code as a National Law ! And 
yet it was considered a patriotic code fifty years ago.” 

It first made us a nation of absentee landlords, did it 
not?” 

‘‘Indeed, yes; small blame to them if they preferred a 
whole skin to being riddled with bullets. It was a dastardly 
thing. It not only oppressed the landlord, but the tenant. If 
either disobeyed its rules it meant certain death. Its victims 
were from all ranks of life, and its fraternity a band of merci- 
less assassins sworn to carry out any decree the chiefs ap- 
proved.” 

“Ah! well,” said Hermia, “those days are over. There 
is no fear of their repetition. And here we are at Corrigan’s. 
Look at Micky 1 and did you ever see such a disreputable 
place?” 

“They seem to be having a party, don’t they?” asked 
Laurence Moira, as he drew rein and paused beside the miser- 
able shanty. 

“ Shure, ’tis the lady from Mount Moira,” exclaimed a voice. 
“ Ah, thin, good day to your honor’s worship, ’tis one av the 
family ye are, as any one kin see.” 

15 


226 


KITTY THE EAG, 


**Why, Johanna, is that you?" said Lady Ellingsworth, 
** where have you been all this long time ? " 

The Swan dropped a gracious curtsy and murmured a bless- 
ing, to which she added as an appendix that she had been on 
her peregrinashuns." 

“ And 'tis meself is plazed to welcome ye, me darlin’ gintle- 
man," she went on, “I heard as you were intindin’ to honor 
us all wid a sight av ye, and I had a hint of managin’ and 
interfayrin’, which is a matter of taste, and not to be rashly 
or unadvisadly undertaken. But no doubt the study of the law 
has taught ye to be circumspect, and a grand study it is in- 
tirely, wid a rayson for ivery thing natural or unnatural." 

*‘Mr. Moira has come to have a talk with Micky," said 
Lady Ellingsworth. “ Are you," — she hesitated, then added, 
“visiting them? " 

I am partaking of their hospitality at this prisint moment," 
answered the Swan loftily. “ Shure, isn’t Moll Corrigan my 
own mother’s cousin ? and we was as fine a pair av dancers as 
ye’d find the country side whin we was young, and afore she 
took up and married that thafe o’ the wurld yonder. Ah ! ye 
may look, Micky Corrigan, I’m sayin’ it to your own face — an 
idle, drunken, unchristian Anthernitarian as ye are, and didn’t 
Father Flaherty himself say that ov ye only the last Sunday as 
iver was, when it made the sixteenth, ye’d nivir been to mass 
at all, at all ! ’’ 

“ I want a word with you, Micky," said Laurence Moira, 
springing from his saddle and ruthlessly cutting short the skein 
of Johanna Reardon’s eloquence. 

He walked up to the door of the cabin, against which its 
ragged unshaven owner was leaning in a half somnolent condi- 
tion, born of the heat and the contents of a quart bottle of 
whisky, the neck of which was protruding from his coat pocket. 
The man was sulky and almost insolent at first ; but Laurence 
spoke firmly and clearly on the subject of his misdemeanors, and 
mentioned his own intentions in the matter of rent and farming. 

“ This place is going to rack and ruin," he said. “ Ten 
years ago there was not a better farm on the estate. It is only 
due to your own laziness and drunken habits." 

“ Ah ! thin, maybe, sir, ye’ll try your own hand at it," said 
Micky insolently. “ It’s not my fault if the soil’s bad and the 
wheat won’t grow." 

“Then if this farm is such an unprofitable one, why not try 
another?" said Laurence Moira. 


KITTY THE BAG, 


227 


“Another! ” the man drew himself up savagely. “ Faix, 
I’d like to see meself at it. ’Twas my father’s before me, and 
it’ll be my own son’s afther me; and I’d like to see the man 
as would take the place from me, or interfere wid a stick or a 
stone av it.” 

“You will certainly see that man, and before long too,” an- 
swered young Moira quietly. “ My uncle has appointed an 
agent, and he will insist on arrears of rent being paid or else 
turn out the defaulters.” 

The man laughed. “ Let him try,” he said. “ I’m not 
going out av here while there’s a breath in my body ; and if 
you try force there’s thim as will look afther me — ay, and re- 
venge me too 1 ” 

“ Oh ! is that the way with you ? ” said Moira coolly. “ I 
thought there was some one at the back of all this late mischief. 
Well, look here, Micky Corrigan, I’m an Irishman like your- 
self, and I know a great deal more than you do about the 
rights and wrongs of the people. I sympathize with any in- 
dustrious, hardworking man who has done his best for the land 
and the family, and failed to make it pay ; but I have no 
patience with you idle, useless cumberers of the soil, who won’t 
take the trouble to do a useful day’s work unless you see starva- 
tion at the door I I can soon judge to which class you belong, 
my good man, and I give you fair warning that you’ll get 
justice and no more at my hands when there’s a day of reckon- 
ing between us.” 

“And who may be, sir, wid your airs and authority? 
I’m Mr. Moira’s tinant, and sorra a bit will I stir to serve any 
one beside ” 

“And I am Mr. Moira’s nephew and agent,” said Laurence 
quietly. 

) The man’s face fell. “You?” he said. “You are the 
agint ye were spakin’ of ? ” 

“ Yes, and I meant every word I said. Don’t you think, 
Micky, it would be better to put your shoulder to the wheel 
and set to work to make things better ? Look at Knockrea and 
Dunsane. We ought to be ashamed to say that the two most 
creditable estates in the country are worked and directed by 
Englishmen 1 ” 

Micky drew himself up with a sudden air of dignity. 
“ Faix, sir, it nivir struck me in that light,” he said. “ Do 
you mane that an Irishman can’t kape a dacint roof over his 
head and do a dacint piece of farming if he’s minded to? ” 


228 


KITTY THE RAO. 


mean,” said Laurence Moira smiling, ^‘that there’s 
nothing in the world an Irishman can’t do or attempt to do, 
if he's minded.^' 

‘‘Ah! thin, ’tis your honor’s self knows the ways av it,” 
said Micky, “and I’ll show yer honor that ye’ve not misread 
us. Work, is it? Shure, I’m the bhoy to work whin I’m put 
to it.” 

“That’s right,” said Laurence cheerfully, “and just take a 
bit of advice, and pay a little less court to that bad friend I 
see sticking out of your pocket. It interferes not only with 
work but with good intentions. And now good-morning to 
you; I hope the next time I ride over I’ll find things 
looking a little better, and it’s time that wheat yonder was 
cut. They’ve got in all theirs at Larry Dunn’s, where I’m 
staying.” 

“Staying at Dunn’s, are ye? Shure, your honor ought to 
be at the house.” 

“ That is let, you know. Besides, I prefer being at Larry’s. 
I can keep an eye on you all.” 


“And how did you get on?” asked Lady Ellingsworth as 
they rode off. “ Micky was quite polite at parting.” 

“Oh! I think I talked him over,” said Laurence. “But 
there is undoubtedly some antagonistic power at work here 
stirring up the old strife and discontent.” 

Lady Ellingsworth was silent. They rode slowly on for 
some moments under the chequered shade of the bending 
boughs. The air had all the balmy softness of summer 
tempered with the freshness that makes the months of 
August and September peculiarly delightful in mountain dis- 
tricts. 

On the summit of the hill they paused as if by mutual con- 
sent, and gazed out at the blue waters of the bay, above which 
floated light masses of rain-charged clouds, whose tearful 
threats the sunshine laughed to scorn. 

“Poor, lovely, ‘distressful’ country!” exclaimed Lady 
Ellingsworth involuntarily. 

“Yes,” said Laurence, a momentary shadow on his bright 
young face. “It is all that. Lady Ellingsworth. Yet there is 
delighting and delightful life everywhere around. If only it 
could be made peaceable and law-abiding ! ” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


229 


It will be a work of time. It need not be hopeless,” she 
said. “ But also it would be the work of wise heads and 
understanding hearts.” 

“ A difficult combination,” he said. “ For Ireland is like 
a woman : the hand that rules her must be tender as well as 
strong.” 

You believe in the mastery of sex then ? ” 

**I do. Clever, intelligent, and important as women are, 
it is not wise to give them their head. With them, love of 
power is only a higher form of vanity. And even intellectual 
ambition is often the mere outcome of a morbid curiosity. A 
woman too has so long been used to reach a man through his 
worst side instead of his best, that she makes him her advocate 
less through her superiority than his senses. We have plenty 
of advanced women nowadays. Lady Ellingsworth. By the 
end of the century there will be plenty more. One wonders 
what the result of feminine insubordination will be; what 
really is the true inscription on the banner of defiance they 
seem desirous to unfurl.” 

She looked at him with some curiosity. 

*‘I see you have made good use of your time,” she said, 
used to wonder why men objected to woman moving out 
of what they have chosen to call her * proper sphere.’ But, 
after all, I think they are wise to wish to keep her there. We 
are safer, purer, better, with our eyes bandaged to evil, and 
our hearts only conscious that sin exists. Once we kno7v, 
taste, feel, handle for ourselves, all the charm of youth and joy 
of life are gone. Nothing that experience brings, compensates 
for what illusion loses.” 

She sighed, and drew the reins together and gave her 
mare the signal to advance. He followed, wondering ; a little 
puzzled, a great deal interested in this beautiful woman. 




230 


KITTY THE BAG, 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A FEW days later Hermia drove over to Knockrea to speak 
to her father on the subject of Kitty. 

She found him sitting on the terrace in a long, low basket 
chair, revelling in the warm sunshine that showed up so re- 
morselessly the lines on his haggard face, the attenuation of 
his frame, the ravages of illness and of age. 

The contrast between her perfect health and wonderful 
beauty and his own decrepitude struck him afresh as his 
irritated glance rested on her face, and read its soft com- 
passion. 

He passively suffered the touch of her lips on his brow, and 
then bade the footman bring another chair out for her, and 
went on reading his paper. 

' “ I have come to speak to you about something important,” 

said Hermia gently, as she drew the light seat nearer to him. 
<< Will you listen ? ” 

Your affairs of importance are seldom worth the time spent 
in discussing them,” was the ungracious response. 

But he laid the newspaper down on his knee and looked at 
her from under the broad, soft brim of his summer hat. 

‘*It is about Kitty,” she said hurriedly. ^^Had you any 
idea that she possessed a wonderful voice — really wonder- 
ful? You know I am no mean judge, and I do not get 
enthusiastic over trifles. She would be one of the singers 
of the age — if not the singer — with two years’ proper musical 
training.” 

Indeed,” he said. Well, you can give it her if you 
wish.” 

<*I?” she started and colored warmly. thought she 
was your protegU, father.” 

<< Was — yes. But I distinctly told her I had done all I in- 
tended to do for her. I had my own reasons for having her 
educated, my own reasons for judging for myself of the effects 
of a different life and her own powers of adaptability. She 
can make her own way in the world now.” 

For a moment Hermia was silent. Her face grew as white 


KITTY THE BAG. 


231 


as her gown, a look of resolve and firmness came into her 
beautiful eyes. 

Father,” she said, as we are discussing this subject, I 
should like to ask you a question.” 

He leant back in his chair and smiled ironically. << By all 
means ask it,” he said, ” as long as it is not the vexed one of 
rent, or eviction.” 

”No,” she said. ” It is only this. Have you any reason 
for your interest in this child ? ” 

” Yes, I have,” he answered quietly, and his eyes met hers 
with the look she hated — the look that meant unpardoned and 
unpardonable remembrance. 

Do you know,” she went on, averting her eyes, *^what 
has been said about that — interest ? ’ ’ 

” I can quite imagine. I know the capabilities of Irish 
curiosity and Irish invention.” 

Again she was silent. His cold eyes still watched her with 
merciless scrutiny. 

is not true, I suppose,” she said suddenly. 
are not really acquainted with the mystery of her parentage? ” 
“That,” he said, “I decline to answer. People are at 
liberty to say what they please. It has never troubled me. 
I do not intend it shall trouble me now.” 

“No,” she said. “It is not you it would trouble; but 
what about Kitty herself. Is it fair to have done all this, and 
encouraged her ambition for a sphere so widely different to the 
one she occupied, and then drop her into the lap of chance, or 
leave her to the world’s scant charity? ” 

“ I see you are warmly interested,” he said. “ The future 
rests with you.” 

“ I might deny that responsibility even at your bidding. 
Why should I take on my shoulders a burden you have grown 
weary of ? ” 

“You will know some day,” he answered. “It may be a 
long or a short time, but, be quite sure of this, you will learn 
the truth at last, I shall take care of that. Meanwhile, if 
you are really interested in her, serve her in any way you think 
best. No doubt she will be duly grateful. It is only those we 
benefit who most surely return to sting the hand that has 
served them.” 

Hermia was silent. Her eyes were on her restless hands as 
they toyed with the rings upon her fingers ; her face looked 
colorless and disturbed. 


232 


KITTY THE BAG, 


If I agree with her wish,” she said, ''and make her a 
singer, it will be a considerable expense. You know that my 
income is not too large for my wants now.” 

" I know,” he said, " that you foolishly lessened it by pay- 
ing racing debts for your husband. I know too that you have 
spent far more than you need have done in benefiting another 
person’s property. But it is no concern of mine. You are 
not bound to give in to this girl’s whim — for no doubt it is 
only a whim. I remember you yourself at one period of your 
life were crazy to go on the stage. I remember that your 
voice was considered remarkable.” 

A hot painful flush crept to her face. Her lip quivered. 

'‘This is no whim,” she said passionately. "The girl 
has genius — power — of no common order. I feel it unfair to 
her not to give her the opportunity and aid she deserves.” 

" Then why not give it? You are good at preaching self- 
denial. The loss of a few Paris gowns, or the putting down 
of one or two of your carriage horses, ought not to stand in 
the way of exercising your favorite virtue.” 

He saw the color ebb away from her cheek. He knew that 
every word went cruelly home to her sensitive heart. She rose 
abruptly. " I will consider the matter,” she said. " I con- 
fess your own indifference is a mystery to me. Perhaps if you 
heard her ” 

He made a slight impatient gesture. " Oh ! spare me that. 
The warblings of a Malibran or a Grisi would not charm me 
now. I only want to be left in peace, which is the last thing 
people seem inclined to permit.” 

"I will not trouble you further,” she said coldly. "I 
thought it only right to let you know Kitty had every pros- 
pect of securing position and independence in the future. 
She is very proud and very ambitious. A dependent position 
seems intolerable to her. Although she has no claim on me 
save that of womanhood and misfortune, I shall take up the 
duty you have begun — but remember 1 do it for your sake as 
much as for hers.” 

A gleam of the old cynical humor came into his eyes. 

"That is really more than I have any right to expect,” he 
said. "I trust you will find that charity, like virtue, will 
bring its own reward in the future.” 

She left his presence with the same resentful feeling that 
he invarably roused. She could never explain its cause, but 
it was always there, 


KITTY THE RAG. 


233 


The mystery of Kitty perplexed her more and more. 
Even to her it seemed as if there could be but one natural 
explanation of it; and yet why was this change of attitude at 
the very time he seemed called upon to exert his utmost influ- 
ence on the girl’s behalf? Why had he so coolly thrown his 
responsibility on Hermia’s shoulders? What had he meant by 
those mocking counsels ? 

As she drove home she felt a vexed impatience even at 
her own interest. But the girl charmed her, despite a half- 
reluctant resistance to that charm. Besides, there was 
something about her that recalled so many strange memories. 

At times she felt inclined to seek Biddy Maguire and ask her 
to throw some light on the subject ; but the dread of having 
her own suspicions verified restrained that impulse. Besides, 
it could make no real difference now. 

Fate had thrown the girl into her care whether she 
wished it or not. The very resentment she felt at her 
father’s behavior in the matter only increased her own 
sense of responsibility. She could not turn Kitty adrift ; 
she could not counsel her to return to poverty and ob- 
scurity ; she could not blind her own eyes to the wonderful 
loveliness and wonderful genius the girl possessed. With the 
knowledge of these facts staring her in the face she felt that 
the unwritten law of woman’s obligation to woman clamored 
for its rights more strongly than any other. 

“ I must do what I can for her,” she thought. ** It would 
be unfair to keep her in a dependent position when she can so 
easily fit herself for a better one.” 

She reached home at luncheon time, and took that meal in 
company with Kitty. 

Even in this short space the girl had learnt to adapt herself 
to a different mode of life. Her voice had a more subdued 
tone ; her step was less brisk and assertive. She noted every 
grace and charm of Lady Ellingsworth, and set herself to 
copy them in her own fashion. 

Her hostess spoke very little to her during the meal. She 
was absorbed in thoughts that wavered between her father’s 
strange behavior and her own intentions. 

‘‘Your afternoons are free to do as you please,” she said to 
Kitty, as she at last rose from the table. “ Perhaps you would 
like to go and see Biddy Maguire. If so, will you tell her that 
I intend to have you trained for a singer, and that you 
will probably have to go abroad ? I will take you to Milan as 


234 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


soon as the hot weather is over, and see that you are placed in 
good hands.” 

** You / ” exclaimed Kitty in unfeigned astonishment. 
** Has Mr. Marsden said anything about it ? ” 

** He has left it to me and yourself,” said Hermia coldly. 
** It seems the best thing to be done. Talent is too rare a 
thing to be wasted, and I am sure you will do your utmost to 
fulfil my anticipations.” 

Their eyes met, gravely, curiously, inquiringly. 

It is very good of you to trouble yourself about me,” 
said the girl at last. “ I am very grateful; I will do my 
best.” 

But there was no gratitude in her heart, and the heavy 
lashes hid her eyes in whose sombre depths lurked both 
envy and distrust. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


235 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

So once again the wheel of destiny had turned in Kitty’s 
favor, and her vivid imagination showed her to herself rich, 
famous and independent. 

She walked through the village that afternoon with her head 
erect and her eyes bright with triumph. How she hated the 
place, and the familiar greetings and the good-humored irony 
of those who had once been her companions ! 

Every smile and nod irritated her. She hated to think she 
had ever been a common ragged child, running barefooted 
over the ill-paved streets; hated to think that but for one lucky 
chance she would now be only a barelegged colleen, with no 
thought beyond the rough gaiety of fair or market, or the 
young farmers who joked and danced with her at wake or 
wedding. 

Ah ! Kitty child ! Ah, well, look at her now ! — the 
grand airs av her!” ^^Shure, ’tis a royal princess she’s 
afther fancyin’ she is!” Ah, Blessed Mother! to think 
’tis the same child asT’d give a douse o’ the churn stuff to as 
soon as look at her. Musha, musha, the changes in this 
world ! ” 

Those and such like remarks greeted her progress, and by 
no means improved her temper. 

When she reached Biddy’s she was hot and dusty and tired 
with her long walk. She found the Dalin’ Woman entertain- 
ing the Red Hen. She was greeted with rapture by Biddy, 
but her own response was ungracious and cold. 

“ Shure, ’tis yourself is gettin’ too fine for the likes av us,” 
observed the Red Hen, her little keen eyes peering out from 
her shawl at the girl’s clouded face. Not a civil word ivir 
now, nor a thought av the days whin ye were glad enough av 
the bit an’ sup from Biddy here, the dacint woman. Ah ! 
thin, an’ myself too, whin my basket was handy, an’ the 
gingerbread an’ bit o’ rock under me shawl.” 

Come, come, Molly ! ” exclaimed Biddy. ** Don’t be 
vexin’ the crathur wid referrin’ to thim times. ’Twas herself 
always had the makin’s av a lady in her, an’ ye can’t go 
against that any way. Ye’ll have a cup av fresh tea, acushla, 


236 


KITTY THE BAG, 


won’t ye? It’s not the lavin’s I’d be offerin’ ye now. Just 
wait a moment an’ I’ll have the kettle boilin’ fine.” 

Kitty looked with extreme annoyance at the old beggar 
woman, and then drew a chair up near the door for coolness. 

I’ll be glad of some, Biddy,” she said. “ But I came to 
have a talk with you on some private matters.” 

“ Ah ! faix, thin, is it meself that’s intrudin’ ? ” exclaimed 
the Red Hen, bridling visibly. “ Quality manners indade, 
an’ saycrets wid the best av thim ! Ah ! ’tis you have the 
luck, Kitty; but mark my words, pride will be your worst 
friend, an’ what you most desire will be a curse in the end an’ 
rob yer heart av its pace. ’Tisn’t granted wishes that brings 
happiness — you’ll remember what I’ve said whin the time 
comes.” 

She rose as she spoke, with the dignity of the seeress strong 
upon her. 

‘‘Are you goin’, Moll woman ? ” inquired Biddy. 

“ I am, Biddy avic. There’s the widow M’Carthy I’m 
afther promisin’ to see — the poor crathur — ’tis brought to bed 
wid twins she was yesterday, an’ her husband not a month in 
his grave. I dun no how it is wid her at all.” 

Biddy protested faintly at so brief a visit, but in truth she 
was anxious to have a talk with Kitty and learn how she liked 
her new life. 

When the Red Hen had taken her departure she brought 
the girl her tea, and gazed with tender pride at the increased 
loveliness of face and figure. Kitty wore a white gown that 
Lady Ellingsworth had given her, and a broad straw hat. 

“You’re well, acushla ? ” said Biddy tenderly. “An’ 
happy, I’m sure. ’Tis the grand life for ye, darlin’, an’ ’tis 
yourself is just made for it intirely. What was it ye came to 
tell me about ? ” 

Kitty sipped her tea slowly. 

“ I — I hardly know what you will say to it, Biddy,” she 
said. “ But Lady Ellingsworth thinks I have a very good 
voice, and she wishes to train it so that I may become a pro- 
fessional singer. To do this I should have to go abroad — to 
Italy, indeed — and study for at least two years. Then it would 
be in my own power to become independent, rich, famous. 
Think of that, Biddy ! ” — and her eyes kindled. “ To live 
no longer on charity or sufferance — to be before the world, 
and win its praise and wonder ! Qh ! doesn’t it sound glori- 
ous — too good to be true ! ” 


KITTY THE It AG. 


237 


Biddy sank into the nearest chair, her face white as death. 

Ah, glory be to God ! What’s it all about ? ” she exclaimed. 
** It’s fairly moithered me poor head is gettin’. What was it 
ye said, child ? A singer ! An’ thafW make you rich ? 
Shure, ’tis jokin’ ye are, mavourneen ! ” 

“ Indeed, I am not,” said Kitty indignantly. And Lady 
Ellingsworth is well able to judge. She used to sing beauti- 
fully herself ; and she told me that in England or abroad she 
had never heard a voice like mine — that it would be a wonder 
for the world. Why should she say so if it was not true — if 
she did not really think it ? ” 

“Ah, why indeed?” echoed Biddy plaintively, conscious 
only that the wave of Kitty’s luck was bearing her further and 
further away from the old landmarks. “ It seems wonderful, 
darlin’. I used to say you had a bird in your throat whin you 
was little ; but I’ve nivir taken much count av it since. In- 
dade. I’ve not had the chance! But what was it ye said 
about It’ly, darlin’ ? Shure, ’tis a mighty long way to be 
goin’ to larn what you knows already.” 

“ I don’t know half enough,” said Kitty eagerly. “ I can 
sing, of course, but not as real singers do — professionals, I 
mean — who sing at concerts or in the theatres.” 

“Theaytres!” exclaimed Biddy. “The saints presarve 
us, darlin’, ye’re nivir goin’ to appear in thim sort av places 
at all, at all I Ah, musha, why did I ivir let ye go from me? 
An’ what’s Lady Ellingsworth thinkin’ of at all? Shure, ’tis 
only haythin wickedness ye’ll be lamin’, child — an’ in furrin 
parts there’s no knowin’ what they’ll be doin’ to ye. Ah 1 
’twill break me heart intirely, Kitty asthore. It’s drivin’ a 
nail in me coffin ye are wid ivery month ye’re away from me. 
But whin the say’s between us, an’ ye’re in a strange counthry 
altogether — an’ nivir your voice at me ear, nor your eyes 
smilin’ upon me — O Blessed Mother, ’tis dead I’ll be in- 
tirely ! ” 

The melancholy picture was too much for her. She raised 
her apron and wiped away tear after tear that rolled down her 
furrowed cheek. 

The sight vexed Kitty, as any display of grief or emotion 
invariably did. 

“Oh! come, Biddy,” she said, “what’s the use of fret- 
ting like that? It’s only for my own good that I must go 
away, and Lady Ellingsworth knows it. Besides, I want to be 
independent. I owe everything to charity. I’ll do so no 


238 


KITTY THE RAG. 


longer ; and when I can earn my own living, Biddy, I’ll have 
you to live with me, and you shall never work any more.” 

<^Ah! the blessings of Heaven on ye, child. ’Tis you 
have the good heart, for all ye seem so proud and wilful ; and 
indade, asthore, what’s best for you is known to yourself, 
though it breaks me heart to think of what ye may have to 
suffer in a strange land. O Blessed Mother, may sorrow and 
sickness nivir come nigh you when you’ll be far from thim 
that loves you ! ” 

She rocked herself to and fro, distracted by the melancholy 
picture her imagination had conjured up, and Kitty felt a 
momentary twinge of conscience at the memory of this long- 
suffering and patient love she had so little regarded. 

She sat there silent, knowing from experience that grief, 
when violent, is often short-lived in the Irish heart. Soon 
Biddy ceased to weep, and looked up at the fair young face by 
the doorway, the evening light on its delicate bloom, and a 
certain melancholy subduing its petulance. 

“And whin are ye laving us, cushla ma chreef'^'^ she 
asked at length. 

“Oh, not till the autumn,” said Kitty. “ Lady Ellings- 
worth is coming with me, so you need have no fear but that I 
shall be well placed. I think she knows some people in Milan 
— that’s the name of the town in Italy, Biddy — and will leave 
me with them as a boarder. I shall have to study hard, but I 
don’t mind that.” 

“ Shure, darlin’, what study did it nade to teach ye to wile 
the heart out of us wid ^ Little Mary Cassidy,’ or ‘ Shule 
Agra,’ or ‘ The Wearin’ o’ the Green ’ ? Will all your foreign 
tunes and foreign words bate thim ould songs av Ireland ? ” 

Kitty smiled. “ Ah, but, Biddy, Ireland isn’t the whole 
world, and what pleases us won’t please other people. And 
there’s quite as beautiful music as ours in other countries ; 
when I come back ” 

She stopped abruptly, for a shadow darkened the doorway, 
and to her annoyance she saw Johanna Reardon standing 
there. 

“ God save all here, and a fine good-evening to ye,” ex- 
claimed the Swan. “ Is that yourself, Kitty ? It’s quite the 
stranger ye are here, more espaciously since the lady has taken 
ye up, though don’t be above takin’ a hint that consanguinity 


* Pulse of my heart. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


239 


is by no manes self-deceptive, and Fve found raysonsfor sayin' 
that same. But wid yer lave, Biddy woman. I’ll just come in 
and rest meself, for 'tis a long tramp I’ve come this blessed 
day.” 

“ Come in and kindly welcome,” said Biddy, rising and 
bringing forward a chair. 'Tis long since I’ve had sight 
av ye, woman. Where have ye been at all ? ” 

“ Oh, travelin’ about, Biddy, passin’ the time with some of 
me relashuns” (this was a polite fiction on the part of Jo- 
hanna, by which she often accounted for little disappearances 
with which the law had something to do). But I’ve been 
back agin as you see,” she went on, *<and I thought I’d 
just be givin’ you ocular demonstrashun that I was alive. 
And how’s all wid ye, Biddy woman, and Jim, how’s him- 
self? ” 

“Ah! bad cess to him, he’s just as ivir he was,” said 
Biddy. “ There’s a dhrop o’ tay in the pot, Johanna, and 
there’s whisky in the cupboard ; you’ll have a taste for good 
luck?” 

Kitty rose abruptly. These homely hospitalities did not in- 
terest her. 

“ I must be getting home now, Biddy,” she said. “ It’s a 
long walk, and I promised Lady Ellingsworth to be back be- 
fore dark.” 

“Well, there’s an escort ready for ye anyways,” observed 
the Swan. “For ’twas meself saw young Misther Moira, the 
new agint, as they call him now, loitering about the village, 
and ’twas himself axed me if I’d seen you goin’ back by the 
borean, so ’twasn’t hard to make deductions, by rayson of 
which same he’s waitin’ for ye out beyont, and ye’ll not have to 
fear the dark or the loneliness either.” 

Kitty colored warmly as she met Biddy’s surprised glance. 
She had not spoken of the young agent, nor had the Balin’ 
Woman learnt of his arrival yet. 

“ I am sure,” she said haughtily, “ that Mr. Moira is not 
waiting for me. You are quite mistaken, Johanna.” 

“He’s put up the side car, anyways,” said Johanna. 
“ (Thank ye kindly, Biddy, a sup o’ the crathur wouldn’t be 
at all unacceptable in my fataygued condition.) And if ye 
go down the street, Kitty, ye’ll be havin’ cognizance of his 
prisince before ye’ve got the length of Shaun M’Carthy’s 
shop. ’Tisn’t a word av a lie I’m tellin’ ye, child, so ye 
needn’t look so indignashious at me.” 


240 


KITTY THE RAO. 

“Good-bye, Biddy,” said the girl quietly. 

The red spot of indignation still burnt in either cheek. Her 
pretty mouth was closed in a scornful line. 

“Ah, now, child, don’t ye be goin’ ; shure, ’tis a mighty 
short time ye’ve been here. Why wid ye be mindin’ Jo- 
hanna’s jokes at all, at all? Shure, ’tis she has the foolish 
tongue as we all know. And who is Mr. Moira, darlin’ ? 
Not a word have I had wid you this blessed day, only bearin’ 
that you’re lavin’ us ” 

“Lavin’! What’s that at all?” exclaimed the Swan. 
“ Kitty lavin’ us. Well, glory be to God, that’s news for me, 
Biddy woman 1 Where’s she goin’ to ? ” 

But Kitty pressed a hurried kiss on Biddy’s disturbed face 
and fled. 

The Balin’ Woman went to the door, and stood watching 
the graceful figure till a turn in the street hid it from view. 

Then she sighed heavily and returned to her friend, who was 
making herself extremely comfortable with the help of the 
whisky bottle. 

“ Come, take a sup yourself, Biddy woman,” said Johanna. 
“ Shure, you’re not yourself at all. There’s a hypochon- 
driacal look about ye that spakes av an onaisy mind. Is it 
frettin’ ye are on account of the child? And she just the 
very epitotny of ingratitude. Divil a bit she cares for any one 
savin’ her own self, and that will always stand first with Kitty, 
as thrue as the sun to the dial. Don’t I remimber her a bit 
av a brat wid vanity and consate looking out av the tail av her 
eye, if so be she’d a new gown or a bit of ribbon to flaunt 
afore the children? That’s thrue for ye, now, and it’s not the 
better she’s gettin’ wid bein’ cockered up by education and 
book-larnin’ as is only fit for the quality itself.” 

“Don’t ye be after runnin’ her down, Johanna,” said 
Biddy, “ the child’s worth all that’s bein’ done for her. She’s 
as beautiful to look at as Lady Ellingsworth herself, and no 
one can say but she’s clever, and has the manners av the rale 
gintry. And now she’s afther tellin’ me they’re sending her 
to Italy to larn to sing like thim gran’ ladies we’ve heard of 
that has to go before quanes and emperors.” 

“ What’s that ye’re sayin’ ? ” exclaimed the Swan incredu- 
lously. “Kitty goin’ to furrin countries — and to learn to 
sing? Is it like Catherine Hayes they mane — the cantytracy 
of Ireland? Shure, haven’t I seen the picture of her wid my 
own two eyes, in a satin gown, and wid pearls as big as 


KITTY THE RAG. 


241 


pigeons* eggs round her neck? Ah ! shure, 'tis jokin’ ye are, 
woman. Kitty’s got the swate voice sure enough, and ’tis she 
could turn a tune wid any one, but to take to professhional 
vocalization, and singin’ to lords and ladies, why, ’tis only 
laughin’ at her they’d be ! ” 

“Ah! indade thin, Johanna Reardon, ’tis yourself don’t 
know ivirything, for ’tis Lady Ellingsworth herself as says that 
Kitty’s voice is the wonderful one, and a mine of gould to her 
whin once she can sing thim furrin songs, though ’twill go 
hard to bate her wid the tunes av her own counthry.” 

“ Well, well, glory be to God 1 and who’d have thought it 
now ? and me listenin’ to her givin’ the Irish o’ the ‘ Shan van 
Voght,’ not to spake av * Silent, O Moyle,’ and hapes av 
others,” said the Swan amazedly. “And nivir thinkin’ that 
her voice was anythin’ to be supercilious about 1 Faix, no 
wondher she’s houldin’ her head so high and lookin’ down on 
the likes av us. Sorra a bit would I belayve it save from your 
own lips, Biddy Maguire ! ” 

She helped herself to another sup of whisky on the strength 
of the startling communication, and the remainder of her visit 
was spent in ejaculations of mingled wonder and envy. 

Biddy listened and said little. With all her pride and de- 
light in Kitty’s good fortune there mingled a sorrowful fore- 
boding. The shadow of that parting so soon to fall upon her 
life had already thrown its mysterious influence around her. 

16 


242 


KITTY TEE EAG. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

There was no possibility of avoiding Laurence Moira, so 
Kitty walked down the long straggling street till she came to 
the shop door by which he was standing. 

He lifted his hat as she approached. I thought I should 
meet you,” he said frankly. “ May I give you a seat back? 
I had to come into the village to make some purchases, and I 
heard from Lady Ellingsworth that you were there.” 

Kitty hesitated a moment. She did not wish to be under 
any obligation to the young man, but on the other hand the 
way was long and dusty, and she was somewhat tired. 

Lady Ellingsworth has asked me to dine there to-night,” 
went on Laurence Moira, so please don’t look so doubtful. 
I really should feel it on my conscience to know you were 
tramping these four miles of dusty road all by yourself.” 

“ I am used to that,” said Kitty quietly. Still, I don’t 
mind confessing I shall be glad of a lift, for I am rather tired. 
It was so hot walking here this afternoon.” 

He assisted her into the high vehicle and they drove off. 
The girl felt in every tingling nerve that her action and her 
escort were being criticised and commented on by the idlers 
they passed, and the acquaintances who gave them greeting. 

Her anger flamed out at last. Oh ! how I hate these 
Irish ! ” she exclaimed. They make every one’s business 
their own, and not the smallest or most insignificant action 
escapes their comment. If only I were rich and independent 
nothing should induce me to live in Ireland.” 

Young Moira checked the horse to walking pace, and looked 
at her in unfeigned surprise. 

They mean no harm,” he said. It is only a kindly in- 
terest after all. Better surely than the stolid indifference of 
the English.” 

“ I don’t agree with you,” she said haughtily. To me it 
appears nothing short of impertinence. Irish humor seems 
always to have an element of coarseness in it ; and that pecul- 
iar good nature and frankness which is so much commended 
is only an excuse for insolent personality and rough banter.” 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


243 


** You are hard on your countrymen,” said young Moira, 
with a sudden remembrance of the girl’s own origin. “Grant- 
ing that their wit and jests are of a somewhat personal nature, 
at least no one who knows them can affirm that they lack 
delicacy of feeling, as well as kindness of heart.” 

“ Oh ! I see you have all Lady Ellingsworth’s prejudices,” 
said Kitty scornfully. “ For my part, I have my own expe- 
rience to fall back upon, and I do not agree with either of you. 
They are as keenly alive to their own interests as any other 
nation, and have tenfold the vanity, superstition, and igno- 
rance of the English.” 

“ I am sorry to hear you say that. Of course we are no 
more exempt from faults and weakness than other people and 
other races, but I do maintain that we have ample excuse for 
the one, and deserve more pity than blame for the other.” 

“ By which you mean whisky and tradition. They have 
been the bane of the Irish nation ever since it had a history at 
all.” 

He laughed. “ You hit hard, Miss Maguire,” he said. 

He saw the blood flame scarlet in her cheek. 

“I wish,” she said, “ you would not call me that. It is 
not my name. I — I have no name. Surely you know that. I 
cannot suppose any one at Mount Moira or Knockrea would 
have left you in ignorance of the fact all this time.” 

He looked slightly embarrassed. “ Indeed you are wrong,” 
he said. “ All I know of you was learnt from a slight expla- 
nation of Lady Ellingsworth’s, and she certainly gave me to 
understand that Maguire was your name.” 

“ It is not, then,” she said in a low concentrated voice, 
“ and I am glad you know it. I don’t know who I am, and 
the gift of my existence is not one for which I am particularly 
grateful.” 

He was silent a moment. He scarcely knew how to take so 
embarrassing a confession. He touched his horse with the 
whip and it trotted rapidly along. The sun was setting over 
the distant mountain peaks ; the warm air blew softly by, 
scented with hay from the stacks, or the wild flowers in the 
hedges. Here and there the smoke from some cabin fire 
floated like a white film above the green of fields, or the sudden 
dip of a valley. 

Kitty looked at it all with sombre eyes. She had no love 
for this land of her birth, and saw little beauty in its loveli- 
ness. 


244 


KITTY THE RAO. 


Presently her companion spoke again. 

‘‘There was no need,” he said, “ for you to have told me 
this. I am too liberal-minded to blame a child for the sins of 
the parents. It makes no difference to me what you are, see- 
ing that it is from no fault of your own. If men were less 
hard on women, and women less lenient to men, I fancy there 
would be fewer sins and less shame to account for.” 

Kitty looked at him in surprise. Her face softened visibly. 
“ Ah ! ” she said, “ there are not many people who think as 
you do. As for me, all my life I have been despised — mocked 
at — for what you say was no fault of my own. Is it any 
wonder that I long to get away from here, from every one who 
can point the finger of scorn at me ? that I crave for independ- 
ence and work, for the day when I need no longer eat the 
bread of charity and accept patronage ? ” 

Her face flushed, her brilliant eyes looked all the scorn and 
longing of her passionate young soul. 

He gazed at her with new interest. That glimpse of wild 
untamed nature pleased him more than any orthodox young 
ladyhood. 

“That day,” he said, “will certainly come. You see, I 
was a true prophet. I felt certain Lady Ellingsworth would 
agree that your vocation lay in a very different direction to 
secretaryship. I believe you are to go to Italy and study, are 
you not? ” 

“ Yes,” she said. “ Somehow I feel as if I ought to thank 
you for all this. I might never have known my own possibili- 
ties but for you.” 

“ Oh ! nonsense,” he said. “ Nature tells us what we can 
do. We can never hide what is in us, if it is of any worth. 
I shall watch your career with keen interest. I think, judging 
from my short experience, that you will never be content with 
passivity. You are cast in a restless mould. Strife of soul, 
and mind, and temper looks out of every line of your face.” 

She laughed softly. “ Indeed, I think you are right. I 
have never known content. I have always wanted to do some- 
thing or be something ever since I could remember. Oh ! 
what was that ? ’ ’ 

The horse had suddenly shied, and she was jerked almost 
out of her seat. 

Moira’s strong wrist checked the animal, and he turned 
round to look at a slouching figure that suddenly lurched for- 
ward from the shadowy hedge. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


245 


** What did you do that for?” cried the young man angrily. 

** Couldn’t you hear us coming along? ” 

Kitty recognized the man instantly. He was Jim Maguire, 
and as usual three parts intoxicated. 

** Hear you, was it? ” he answered sulkily. ** And what if 
I did ? The sorra a bit more right to the road you’re afther 
havin’ than meself. And by all the books that nivir was 
opened or shut ’twas your own fault intirely. Drivin’ along ' 
wid a loose rein the like o’ that, and makin’ love to the colleen 
beside ye instead of minding where ye’re drivin’ to. Oh, 
bedad, and if it isn’t Kitty herself! ’Tis you’re gettin’ up in 
the world, child, and small blame to ye ! Won’t your honor give 
me the price av a glass to drink your healths ? ’Twas meself 
had the trainin’ and bringin’ up av her, and begorra but she 
was the handful av wilfulness.” 

Here’s a shilling for you, and get out of my way,” ex- 
claimed Laurence Moira impatiently, and a word of advice. 
Don’t spend it on drink, my good man. You’ve had as much 
as is good for you already. What’s that you thrust in the 
hedge?” he added, looking keenly down from his high seat. 

** A gun, is it? ” 

A gun, your honor ? Divil a bit av a gun have I seen or 
handled this many a day 1 ’Twas only my blackthorn as I 
was swingin’ around, and thinking av a bit av a shindy I’m 
afther havin’ wid Jack Callaghan up by way av Lazy Corner 
yonder. Bedad, ’twas meself gave him the souse in the pool 
just to cool his blood a bit.” 

“Come, come,” said young Moira sternly, “you’re very 
free with your tongue, but I’m sure I saw the flash of a barrel 
in your hand, and I want to know what you’re going to do 
with it. You haven’t a gun license, I suppose? ” 

“Ah thin, swate bad luck to ye, interfarin’ wid an honest 
man’s amusements,” muttered Jim angrily. “ ’Tis nothing at 
all I’m goin’ to do wid it, seeing there’s not a charge that ’ud 
hurt a tom-tit in the barrel. And it’s not mine at all ,more by 
rayson of Jack Callaghan havin’ given me the loan av it to 
git the lock mended for him in the village.” 

“ Then why did you lie about it? ” asked Moira. 

“ Lie, is it? Shure, your honor knows an Irishman better 
than to belay ve him whin it’s his own business he’s asked to 
explain.” 

“Never mind him, Mr. Moira,” said Kitty impatiently. 


246 


KITTY THE BAG. 


** He’ll keep you talking all night, and then you’ll learn 
nothing.” 

A lengthy experience of Erin’s sons having long since 
proved the probability of this statement, the young man took 
her advice and left Jim standing there in the roadway, looking 
after them while they drove on in the falling dusk. 

** Ah, bad cess to ye, ye lazy trollop, you ! ” muttered Jim, 

wid your high-flown Englified talk and your scornful ways. 
It’s not * gran’ father ’ now. No, faix, and your head held up 
wid the best av thim ! And nivir doin’ a hand’s turn that ye 
can help. I wish I could send ye gallopin’ down the road to 
hell along wid the brood ye come from. It’s not the will 
that’s been wanting this many a day.” 

He turned and took out the gun that had been thrust into 
the hedge. 

** Ah ! may the divil blind the eye of ye. A short coorse 
to ye, and that’s what I’m wishin’,” he went on angrily, 
** wid your * what’s that ? ’ and ‘ who’s gun is it ? ’ Who’s gun 
should it be but me own ? and a tidy bit av sport it’s afther 
whin the divil sends the chance.” 

He looked with stupid fondness at the weapon. 

“ There’s thim as would give a good dale to know about you,” 
he went on as he stepped forward along the dark road. “ ’Tis 
fine and saycret I’ve kept ye this long time, and neither friend 
nor foe got word av it — not even Biddy herself. Ah ! the 
divil’s luck to ye, what made me be takin’ you out to-night at 
all, and the sharp eye av the young agint to git sight ov ye, av 
all payple? And what’s the use av a lie whin ’tis a blunderin’ 
one? Faix, he’s only got to ax Jack Callaghan himself to 
know the divil a bit av a firearm he’s got, or ivir had his 
hand.” 

Stumbling and muttering he made his way toward the 
village. The dusk had fallen rapidly. The moon was but a 
faint pale sickle in the faint blue of the sky, the air was 
strangely still. 

He stood where the borean terminated and held a sort of 
tipsy counsel with himself, in which the gun seemed to play an 
important part. 

‘^ I’m tired of waitin’,” he went on, ‘^and tired of axin’ 
justice. And now, wid his precaushions and his fears, there’s 
nivir a sight av him to be had.” 

He took out the coin that the young agent had given him 
and regarded it with owl-like gravity. 


KITTY TEE BAG, 


247 


** Begorra ! I’ve a mind to toss up for the chance av it,” he 
muttered. 

He laid the gun down and then spun the shilling into the 
air and covered it with the palm of his left hand as he caught 
it in his right. 

Tails and I go,” he said as he lurched up against a tree 
for support. Then he laughed foolishly and looked down at 
the coin as it lay in his dirty palm. A strange light flashed 
into his eyes. 

Tails! by the livin’ God!” he whispered hoarsely. 
^^Now, Mr. Philip Marsden, you’ve got to reckon wid me 
onst for all, and by the holy father, ’twill be the last time for 
one av us ! ” 


248 


KITTY THE BAG. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Who was that man? ” asked Laurence Moira as they sped 
along once more. 

Jim Maguire, the husband of the woman who brought me 
up,” said Kitty. “He’s an idle, drunken creature, and a 
sore trial to poor Biddy.” 

“ I don’t like the look of him, I must confess,” said Moira. 
“ And what could he have been skulking in the hedge for with 
that gun? ” 

“ Perhaps a little bit of poaching,” said Kitty. “ Not that 
he’s much chance on the Knockrea land, for Mr. Marsden 
keeps his preserves very strictly.” 

“What a strange man he is,” observed Moira. ‘‘Sore- 
served and inhospitable. It’s no wonder he is unpopular. I 
must say, however, I have always admired the way in which 
he has managed his tenants and looked after the property. It 
was in a miserable condition when he first succeeded to it.” 

“Succeeded?” echoed Kitty. “I — I thought it came to 
him through his wife.” 

“Oh ! there’s a bit of mystery about that. I never quite 
got at the rights of it. My uncle had one story and my father 
another. However, one thing is certain, Mr. Marsden worked 
marvels once he took things into his own hands. I am the 
more surprised because he is in a way on alien ground, and 
Irish tenants are so difficult to manage. They always consider 
themselves oppressed if concessions are not made, and the 
more idle and indolent they are, the more they require at the 
hands of their landlords.” 

“I thought you considered the Irish perfect,” said Kitty. 

“By no means. They have many good qualities, but they 
are by no means exempt from faults, and very bad ones some- 
times. I only maintain that they are not entirely to blame, 
especially the lower classes, who have been badly educated, 
badly influenced, and whose ignorance and folly have led them 
into crime at the secret instigation of priestly or political 
parties.” 

“ I would be anything on earth sooner than an Irish land- 
lord,” said Kitty with some bitterness, 


KITTY THE BAG. 


249 


*^That is only because you do not understand how to deal 
with an Irish tenant,” said young Moira. “ The other day I 
went with Lady Ellingsworth to Micky Corrigan’s farm. The 
land was in fairly good cultivation, but late as it was, he had 
not troubled himself to stack the corn, and it was almost 
‘drop ripe,’ as they call it. He has about fourteen acres, and 
works it himself when he feels inclined, and has paid no 
rent for four years. Well, I told him that it was a shame an 
Irishman should be beaten by an Englishman, and that at 
Knockrea the harvest was in safe and sound and nothing to 
fear from a break in the weather. It put him on his mettle 
amazingly. The very next day he had got a neighbor or two 
to help, and when I rode over this morning there it was all 
built, and Micky himself as proud as a peacock surveying his 
handiwork. What was more wonderful still, he was as sober 
as a judge. I’m in hopes I’ll get these arrears out of him be- 
fore I be done.” 

Kitty glanced with reluctant admiration at the handsome, 
determined young face. He was decidely “masterful,” she 
felt, and had a way with him that was hard to resist. She 
scarcely wondered that he had conquered the recalcitrant 
Micky Corrigan. 

“You are evidently cut out for an agent,” she said with a 
smile ; “ but do you really like it ? ” 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I do.' I have long made a study of the 
people and their ways, and to me they are always interesting, 
even when most unreasonable. If I had been in my uncle’s 
position I should have gone into Parliament. I can’t under- 
stand how he could have allowed his affairs to get into the 
state they were when Lady Ellingsworth took Mount Moira. 
He owes her a debt of eternal gratitude, and most of the peo- 
ple adore her.” 

“Yes, she is very generous,” said Kitty coldly. 

That innate jealously of the beautiful woman she had always 
secretly envied, prevented any warmer expression than this 
bare acknowledgment of an obvious fact. 

Young Moira noted her restraint with some surprise, but he 
made no further remark upon it, and for some time silence 
reigned between them. Both were busy with their own 
thoughts as the light vehicle rolled swiftly along in the gather- 
ing gloom. 

“ How dark it is growing,” suddenly exclaimed Kitty. “ I 
am afraid there will be a storm to-night,” 


250 


KITTY THE BAG. 


He glanced up at the sky. Dark clouds had gathered in the 
west, and that ominous stillness so often the prelude to a storm 
seemed to hold earth and air in silent expectation. 

You are right,” he said. The rain will be upon us di- 
rectly. Ah, there’s the first flash ! It’s a good thing we are 
so near the house.” 

They turned into the drive as he spoke, and he quickened 
the horse’s speed with a touch of the whip. *‘Why, there’s 
Lady Ellingsworth ! ” he exclaimed suddenly, as his eyes fell 
on a figure walking swiftly before them. 

*‘So it is,” said Kitty. “And there’s the thunder! ” she 
added, as a low rolling peal broke the stillness around. 

Laurence Moira checked his horse by Lady Ellingsworth ’s 
side. Kitty knew of course that she must dismount and give 
up her place, even before Hermia’s glance suggested it. 

“Oh, I’m so glad ! ” she exclaimed. “ I have a horror of 
thunderstorms. Kitty child. I’m sorry there’s no room, but 
if you hurry, you’ll escape, I think. Have you a wrap or um- 
brella? ” 

“Oh, don’t trouble about me,” said the girl brusquely. 
“ I shall not hurt.” 

They exchanged places, and she watched the dogcart drive 
off with a sense of bitter, burning resentment. 

“Always the dust for me, the throne for her ! ” she mut- 
tered. “Oh 1 will the day ever come when I shall meet her 
on equal ground — not poor and rich, but woman to woman ? ” 

She stood there under the arching boughs ; the rain began 
to fall in heavy plashing drops. She lifted her face, and their 
cool touch seemed to rebuke its angry fever. The thunder 
pealed out again. Its fierce note found an echo in her own 
fierce mood. What did they care for her, these two, who had 
flashed out of sight? What did any one care for her, her 
comfort, or peace, or happiness, save, indeed, — Biddy? and 
of Biddy she felt ashamed and impatient, and half resentful 
by reason of her own ingratitude. 

The lurid lightning, the pealing thunder, the falling rain, 
seemed to her symbolic of herself, and that chaotic, restless 
nature of hers, for ever turbulent, for ever unsatisfied. 

She felt that she hated every one and everything to-night. 
Above all, she hated the gracious lovely woman whose every 
word and look meant patronage and superiority. 

“But it won’t be for always,” she muttered. shan't 
be; and then 


KITTY THE BAG, 


251 


A blinding flash of light cut short her words, and for a mo- 
ment brought her a sense of her own danger. Yet still she 
lingered under the trees, her moody eyes watching, the sinister 
glow in the west, all her wild nature attuned to the wild tu- 
mult of the elements. 

The wind arose, and the rooks in the elm boughs burst into 
an uneasy chorus. One terrific crash of thunder rent the 
heavens, and the attendant lightning flashed from space to 
space. Then like a torrent set free from mountain height the 
rain swept down in one massive sheet that penetrated the 
screening branches, and turned the avenue into a running 
river. 

In a few moments the girl was soaked to the skin. Yet 
still she stood in the same place, utterly indifferent to risk or 
discomfort, only intent on watching the disordered elements 
work their will, and rejoicing in some dim savage fashion in 
the discord around her. 

Suddenly a furious gust of wind tore through the close 
ranged trees, snapping off boughs and twigs as if they were 
leaves. Kitty was conscious of a crash, a blow, and then a 
sudden darkness. 

One falling bough had struck her on the temples, and 
stretched her stunned and bleeding on the soaked grass below. 


Lady Ellingsworth sat in the drawing-room at Mount Moira 
shivering with nervous terror as the wild fury of the storm 
raged without, and the roar of the thunder seemed to shake 
the very walls around her. 

Dinner had been countermanded, and the servants were 
huddled together in a frightened crowd, filling the hall with 
pious ejaculations, and crossing themselves at every flash of 
lightning that swept the circling heavens. 

Laurence Moira alone stood unmoved and calm, watching 
the ravaged sky and the pelting rain, and marveling as each 
turbulent moment passed, whether Kitty had yet reached the 
shelter of the house. 

He strained his eyes to catch the flutter of a white skirt 
coming up the avenue, but as yet he had seen nothing. As 
the storm grew fiercer he became really uneasy. 

He turned to his white and shivering hostess. 

Lady Ellingsworth/’ he said, am really afraid that 


252 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Miss Maguire has been caught in the storm. If she is shelter- 
ing under the trees it is positively dangerous.” 

Hermia lifted her pale face. ‘^What can we do?” she 
said. I doubt if any of the servants would go out if I asked 
them. Besides, no waterproof or umbrella w^ould be of any 
use in rain like this.” 

That’s true,” he said gravely. “Still it seems a shame 
to have left her to face it. I wish she were in some shelter.” 

“ She is probably in the summer house,” said Lady Ellings- 
worth. “She had plenty of time to reach it. Indeed, she 
might have got to the house before the full force of the storm 
broke over us, had she hurried as I told her.” 

She was not too well pleased at the young man’s concern. 
Besides, Kitty was not so delicate or sensitive a creature that 
exposure to the elements should hurt her ! 

He returned to the window and maintained his watch until 
gradually the rain lessened, the peals died away into sullen 
mutterings, and the lightning ceased to illumine the black and 
starless sky. 

Then Lady Ellingsworth rose, and rang for lights and the 
delayed dinner. 

“ Kitty must have come in long ago,” she said. “ I dare- 
say she is in her room changing her dress.” 

Moira longed to hear her ask the footman to ascertain this 
point, but she did not do so when she gave him her orders, 
and the young man did not like to press the matter on her no- 
tice again. 

Lady Ellingsworth’s indifference was really only the outcome 
of her own certainty that the girl was safe in some shelter, and 
would be in the drawing-room awaiting them when dinner was 
over. 

She chatted pleasantly to the young agent, and learnt of 
Micky Corrigan’s amendment, and discussed the faults and 
virtues of other tenants, and learnt that the parish priest had 
given out his intention of holding a “station ” * at the cabin 
of a certain recalcitrant parishioner who for four years had ab- 
sented himself from mass and confession. 

When at last Lady Ellingsworth rose, it was nearly half-past 
nine o’clock. She went into the drawing-room, leaving Lau- 

* Holding a « station ” means that the priest and his curate intend com- 
ing to some house in the neighborhood on a day publicly announced from 
the altar and there hearing confessions. It is done to give negligent pa- 
rishioners an opportunity of coming to their duty. 


KITTY THE RAG, 


253 


rence Moira to the claret and cigars, and glanced round ex- 
pecting to see Kitty there. No one was visible. For the first 
time the thought crossed Hermia’s mind that she ought to have 
inquired for the girl’s safe return. 

She rang the bell and questioned the footman. He had 
seen or heard nothing of Kitty. . Then she bade him send one 
of the women to her bedroom to ascertain if she were there. 

After some moments’ delay word was brought back that the 
girl was not in her room ; neither had any one in the house 
seen her since luncheon time. 

Lady Ellingsworth began to feel uneasy. She bade the man 
take a lantern and go down the avenue as far as the spot where 
she had last seen Kitty, also to look in the summer house for 
fear she might have met with any accident. 

It seemed to her very strange that Kitty had not returned. 
There would have been ample time for her to have reached the 
house had she hastened immediately after the dogcart. 

The full fury of the storm had not burst forth for quite a 
quarter of an hour after they had driven off. 

Time went on, and her uneasiness increased. It was a re- 
lief when Laurence Moira at last entered the room, and she 
could tell him of her fears and anxieties. 

He at once offered to- help in the search, but to this she 
would not agree. 

Two of the men have gone to look for her,” she said. 
** Surely that is enough. I fancy she must have taken refuge 
in the summer house, though I cannot imagine what has de- 
layed her all this time.” 

They moved along the long shadowy room, and went over 
to the window, and stood looking out at the wet lawn, the lit- 
tle hurrying runnels on the pathway, the soft gleam of moon- 
light in the now cloudless sky. In both minds there reigned a 
sense of uneasiness, not keen enough for expression, though 
capable of disturbing them both. 

Laurence Moira was wishing he had dismounted and given 
Lady Ellingsworth the reins. Only the fact of the horse’s 
nervous and excitable condition since it had shied on the road, 
had prevented his suggesting this. 

Meanwhile, the moments passed slowly, and ten o’clock 
chimed from the timepiece on the mantelpiece. Then it was 
that the gleam of a light wavering unsteadily in the distance 
caught young Moira’s eyes. 

“They are coming at last,” he said, and he vaulted out 


S54 


KITTY THE EAQ. 


through the open window on to the terrace, and strained his 
eyes to see if the girl’s figure was visible. 

It seemed to him that the men were carrying something, and 
his long-quelled anxiety leaped into sudden fear. Without a 
word to Lady Ellingsworth, he hastened down the gravel path 
and reached the avenue. 

He saw his fears were realized. The men were supporting 
between them a dripping figure, the loosened hair falling in 
wild disorder about the white and blood-stained face. 

He hurried forward with a cry of alarm. 

** We found her under the trees, sir, with a great bough ly- 
ing on the top of her,” said one of the footmen. ’Twas 
quite cold and without a breath of life in her she seemed.” 

Laurence looked at the semiconscious girl, and his heart 
smote him with terrible reproach. Why had he left her at all, 
and why — oh ! why had he not followed his instincts and gone 
in search of her hours ago ? 

He took her in his arms, and bade one of the men hurry 
off for the doctor while he carried her into the house. 

Lady Ellingsworth met them in the hall, and in a few curt 
words he told her of the accident. 

** She must have been stunned,” he said. ** And all these 
hours she has lain there on the wet grass, helpless and uncon- 
scious. Get her to bed at once. I should advise a hot bath 
if she recovers her senses. I took the liberty of sending off 
one of the men for the doctor.” 

** You did quite right,” exclaimed Hermia in great distress. 
**Poor child, poor girl! How can I ever forgive myself? 
How I wish I had sent out after her while we were at dinner I ” 

Kitty opened her eyes and gazed languidly about her. Then 
a violent fit of shivering shook her slight frame, and Laurence, 
\ in great alarm, half led, half carried her up the stairs to her 
own room, and there left her in charge of Lady Ellingsworth 
and the women servants. 

It was nearly an hour before Dr. Garrick arrived, and by 
that time the girl was in bed, fits of shivering alternating with 
burning heat, as she tossed restlessly on her pillows. 

The doctor looked very grave when he heard of the acci- 
dent, and long exposure to the wet and cold. 

It will be a marvel if she escapes rheumatic fever,” he 
said, as he examined the wound on her temples and noted her 
flushed face and hurried breathing. How was it no one no- 
ticed her absence, Hermia ? ” he went on. 


KITTY THE HAG. 


255 


Lady Ellingsworth flushed guiltily. thought she would 
have run home long before the storm burst,” she said ; ** and 
then in my own nervousness I quite forgot her. She does not 
always dine with me, and I fully expected to find her in the 
drawing-room when I went in after dinner. Of course then I 
began to fear some accident must have happened, and de- 
spatched messengers to search for her. They found her under 
one of the trees in the avenue in this condition.” 

Dr. Garrick shook his head with professional caution. 

We can do no more to-night,” he said. I will give her 
a soothing draught, and if she can sleep and the fever does 
not increase, her youth and good constitution may triumph. 
But I hardly expect she will escape complications of some 
sort.” 

Long before morning his fears were realized, and Kitty lay 
in the hopeless grasp of rheumatic fever. 


256 


KITTY THE BAG, 


\ 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

It was scarcely six o’clock when Hermia rose, after a rest- 
less, disturbed night, and took her way to Kitty’s room. 

The woman who had sat up with her, gave a very unfavor- 
able report of her condition, and Hermia saw that the girl was 
really alarmingly ill. She dismissed the woman to get some 
sleep, and then took her place in the sick room. 

The sun was shining brightly in through the drawn blinds. 
She went over to the window and threw it open to admit air 
and sunlight. As she looked out she saw a man riding rapidly 
up the avenue toward the house. 

Wondering what messenger was speeding thither so early in 
the day, she remained standing at the window to see if he came 
to the principal entrance. 

Her heart stood still with momentary fear. She felt that 
this early visitor was the bearer of bad tidings. 

It seemed a long time before a note was brought to her by 
one of the housemaids, and one glance at the girl’s pale, 
frightened face told her that she had heard the news, what- 
ever it was. 

The note was in Dr. Garrick’s handwriting. She tore it 
open and read in a few guarded words that he had been sum- 
moned to her father at daybreak. He had met with an acci- 
dent, and it was advisable that she should come over to 
Knockrea with all possible speed. 

Hermia glanced from the written message to the girl’s fright- 
ened face. 

Who brought this ? ” she asked. 

*‘If ye plaze, me lady, ’twas Andy the coachman’s son. 
An’ I was to tell you to haste all ye could, me lady, for the 
gintleman is in a bad way, an’ the docthor daren’t lave him.” 

Hermia asked no more, but went to her room and dressed 
herself with all possible speed, and ordered the dogcart to “be 
brought round at once. Then, leaving orders as to which of 
the servants were to stay with Kitty, she drove swiftly off to 
Knockrea. 

”An accident” — so Doctor Garrick had said. She mar- 


KITTY THE BAG. 


257 


veled what sort of accident it could be. Surely there had 
been no other attempt on his life ! 

It seemed an eternity till the light vehicle whirled her 
through the big open gates and up to the well-known entrance. 
As she got down at the hall door she saw Dr. Carrick waiting 
for her. His grave face was a preparation for his words. 

“It is too late,” he said. “ He died just ten minutes ago. 
Come in here, my dear, and I will tell you all about it.” 

Pale and trembling, she followed him into the dining-room 
and sank into a chair. 

“It was a repetition of that other attempt,” he said. “ But 
this time the fellow has been caught. He was too drunk to 
escape, but not too drunk to bungle his work. Your father 
was shot through the back as he sat at his table in the library 
last night.” 

Hermia uttered a faint cry of horror. 

“ Shot — and who did it ? ” 

“That vagabond and radical, Jim Maguire,” answered the 
doctor. “He was caught stealing out through a gap in the 
fence with a discharged gun in his hand. One of the keepers 
caught him. He is lodged in the police station at present, and 
the inspector will be here again at noon to continue investiga- 
tions. It is a terrible thing for you, my dear ; but take this 
comfort, that his life was not likely to have been of long con- 
tinuance — at most, a year or two longer.” 

“Did he know he was dying — did he ask forme?” said 
Hermia, lifting her white face to his. 

“Yes, he seemed anxious to see you about something; I 
could not understand what. But he told me his will was in 
his deed-box, and that he had left a letter of instructions for 
you, which he trusted to your honor to fulfil. He did not 
suffer much ; but there was nothing to be done when I was 
summoned. The wound bled inwardly, and he died from ex- 
haustion.” 

“ May I go upstairs now? ” asked Hermia rising. 

“Of course, if you wish; but wouldn’t you rather wait till 
—till ” 

“ No, no ! ” she said almost wildly. “ I should like to see 
him at once — ^just as he is. I think his face would tell me 
what I want to know.” 

Dr. Carrick looked at her in mild surprise. Then he fol- 
lowed her out of the room and into the death-chamber, where 
the women of the household were already congregated, wring- 
17 


258 


KITTY THE RAG. 


ing their hands and giving vent to noisy outbursts of grief, 
interlarded with ejaculations as to his state of salvation, and 
the destiny of his murderer. 

As Hermia entered they all retired, with the exception of 
Mrs. Geoghagan, who was laying pennies on the eyelids of the 
corpse and murmuring aves and paters over it to cornpensate 
for the absence of priest or death-bed rites, which Philip 
Marsden had sternly rejected. 

Ah ! may the Lord be good to him — may his soul rest in 
glory ! Shure, ’twas he was the kind masther to me, an’ 'tis 
the sad heart I’m carrying this day ! ” she exclaimed as Hermia 
approached the bed, and gazed sadly down at the motionless 
figure and marble-white face. 

She stooped and kissed the cold brow, and then sank down 
beside the bed and buried her face in her hands. 

Something in the dignity and self-control of her grief stayed 
Mrs. Geoghagan’s noisy outbursts. She withdrew a short dis- 
tance and waited silently till Hermia rose. 

^‘Begging yer pardon, me lady,” she then said, but there’s 
the last offices to be seen to, an’ ’tis nivir wise to delay thim 
too long. If ye’ll come back in half an hour ’twill be all 
dacint an’ in order. Your ladyship may trust me for that.” 

Hermia looked at her sadly and wonderingly. She knew 
well enough that curious side of the Irish character to which 
the corpse ” appeals more powerfully than the living person- 
ality. 

^‘Pray, do all that is necessary,” she said. *‘And as I 
shall be here all the morning, will you send a messenger to 
Biddy Maguire in the village asking her to come and see 
me? ” 

^‘Indade an’ I will, my lady; an’ thank you for the kind 
thought. Ah ! ’tis a sad blow for her, the dacint woman — an’ 
that thafe o’ the wurld to be bringin’ the disgrace upon her 
after all she’s put up with these many years ! Well, well, ’tisn’t 
for the likes of me to be sittin’ in judgment on people ; but 
’twas meself told her she’d repint the day as ivir she took up 
wid James Maguire — an’ now ’tis the gallows he’ll have, an’ 
sarve him right too wid his murtherin’, thievin’, drunken ways. 
Faith, the dacint strain was nivir in that family, though 
Biddy’s good enough in her way, and ” 

But she spoke to empty air, for Lady Ellingsworth had beat 
a hasty retreat. 

She found Dr. Garrick still in the dining-room, and he told 


KITTY THE kAG. 


2^9 


her he had ordered up some tea for her, as he felt sure she had 
started from home without any breakfast, which was indeed 
correct. He then asked after Kitty, and promised to drive 
over and see her, as soon as he had seen Hermia take some 
food. 

She told him of her intention to stay here in order to see 
Biddy Maguire. 

** I think she would like to nurse Kitty,” she added. “And 
if so ” 

“My dear Hermia, what are you saying?” exclaimed the 
doctor in horrified accents. “ You cannot surely intend to 
have the wife of your father’s murderer under your roof, and 
at such a time. The neighborhood will be scandalized ! ” 

“ I don’t care for the neighborhood,” said Hermia wearily. 
“ I only know that this'poor soul is in heavy trouble, and that 
the trouble will be intensified by hearing of Kitty’s illness. 
Perhaps if she has something to occupy her thoughts and take 
them away from her husband’s disgrace it may ease her burden 
of sorrow. She loves Kitty devotedly, and the post of tend- 
ing and nursing her is as much her right as my duty.” 

“Ah ! my dear, you take too lofty a view of these duties 
and obligations,” said the old doctor. “You have long soared 
out of my reach. I can only admire — I should never dream 
of following your example. But here is your breakfast. Not 
another word till you have eaten something and steadied your 
nerves with a good strong cup of tea.” 

Hermia did her best to follow his commands, but the food 
seemed to choke, though the tea revived her. She put strong 
pressure on herself to avoid bursting into tears. She felt weak 
and wretched and unstrung by all she had undergone in the 
last twelve hours — by her broken rest and this last terrible 
shock. 

It was almost a relief when the kindly old doctor drove off 
and she was left in the darkened house alone with her sorrow. 
She lay down on the couch and closed her eyes, and tried to 
think calmly and clearly of this catastrophe and its attending 
horrors. 

It was all so sudden, so unexpected, that she seemed scarcely 
capable of grasping facts or arranging events in their natural 
sequence. 

Her father murdered — shot down in this dastardly fashion — 
and by the hand of Jim Maguire ! 

That fact stood out with a hateful clearness before her, and 


m 


KITTY THE BAG. 


she half longed for, half dreaded, the appearance of the Dalin* 
Woman. 

The house was very silent. No one came to disturb her ; 
the doctor had left strict injunctions to that effect. So slowly 
the moments passed that one hour seemed to her as twenty- 
four. She rose at length and pushed the disordered hair back 
from her throbbing temples and began slowly to pace the room. 
She wished Judith Montressor was with her. She wondered 
whether the news had traveled yet to her ears. 

With a sudden remembrance of the scene of the catastrophe, 
she resolved to go to the library and see it for herself. 

She left the dining-room and crossed the hall, and entered 
that familiar and favorite refuge of Philip Marsden’s. 

Nothing had been touched. The shutters were unclosed, as 
they must have been on the previous night — on the table lay 
the scattered papers he had been reading. The lamp had 
burnt itself out, and the bright sunshine seemed mocking the 
tragic memories for ever to be associated with that overturned 
chair — that ominous spot upon the carpet. 

Slowly Hermia advanced. With a new horror dawning in 
her eyes she gazed down at those half-dried blood-stains — 
those scattered papers — that fallen pen across the page of well- 
known writing — all the signs of that brief tragedy to which 
Death now lent its terrible significance. 

She stood by the great oak writing-table, with its costly ap- 
pointments, its innumerable drawers and receptacles. How 
strange it seemed to think that its owner’s hand would never 
again unlock one of those drawers, or rearrange with careful 
precision the scattered papers. 

Mechanically her hand strayed among the loose sheets. 
They were chiefly notes and remarks as to various farms, ac- 
counts due or paid, suggestions as to improvements and their 
relative expense. She placed them together in a neat pile and 
then glanced at the drawers. One was half-open and the key, 
attaclied to a bunch, was in the lock. 

She closed it and was about to relock it when she noted some 
obstacle that prevented the catch from fastening. Opening the 
drawer once more, she noted a flimsy sheet of paper lying 
loosely on the top. She drew it out, and below she saw a 
sealed packet, addressed to herself in her father’s writing. She 
took it out and held it undecidedly for a moment, wondering 
whether she ought to open it or not. Then she remembered 
that after all she was the only heir to her father’s property. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


261 


and had surely right to exercise her own judgment in the 
matter. 

She closed the drawer, and seated herself in a chair by the 
table and broke the seal. 

The envelope contained a sheet of paper and another envelope, 
also sealed and directed to herself, with a date subscribed on 
it, underneath which was written : — 

Not to be opened till the above date^ by my daughter, 
Hermia Ellingsworth. Should she die before the time men- 
tioned, the enclosed letter is to be burnt by her executors or 
such person or persons as she shall appoint her heir, or heirs. 

{Signed) “ Philip S. Marsden.” 

Hermia regarded the document with some wonder. 

Then her eyes fell on the loose sheet of paper enclosed in 
the first cover. 

It contained some writing in her father’s small, fine hand, 
and she began to read it : — 

‘ * Hermia, when I am dead — which I have a presentiment 
is not a far-off event — I command you to follow the instruc- 
tions in my last will and testament strictly, and to the letter. 
However surprised or annoyed you are at the disposition I 
have made of my property, you may believe I have excellent 
reasons for what I have done. Those reasons you will find 
explained in the enclosed letter, which you are on no account 
to open before the date mentioned on its cover. 

More and more puzzled at these strange instructions, Hermia 
replaced the letter in the first envelope, and sat there con- 
jecturing and wondering as to what her father could possibly 
mean. 

At last, however, she gave up puzzling over the enigma. 
Probably his will would explain all, and that would be made 
known after the funeral. 

She thought of that ceremony and its attendant horrors with 
a shudder of repugnance. Then she rose and replaced the let- 
ters, and locked the drawer. 

At the same moment a knock came at the door of the 
library, and Mrs. Geoghagan entered, accompanied by the 
superintendent of police. He explained that he had been un- 
avoidably delayed in coming over to the scene of the murder, 
and then proceeded to make all necessary inquiries and investi- 
gations, and draw up the official report. 


262 


KITTY THE RAG, 


He seemed to consider that the prerogatives of his office had 
been interfered with by the attentions rendered to the corpse, 
and was only pacified by Lady Ellingsworth’s reminder that 
the doctor had been on the spot when the deceased man 
breathed his last, and would naturally be prepared to give all 
necessary evidence respecting the nature of the outrage. 

The servants were then summoned and examined, a work 
of time and difficulty, inasmuch as those who knew nothing of 
the matter had as much to say as those who knew a great 
deal. 

Hermia learnt that Jim Maguire had been arrested by one 
of the local police as he was making a way through the hedge. 
The man had at first taken him for a poacher. He was three 
parts drunk, and in that sublime condition had confessed more 
than was at all prudent. 

However, it saved any further search, for when the report 
spread that Mr. Marsden’s life had again been attempted, the 
authorities felt that they would not have to seek far for the per- 
petrator of the crime on this occasion. 

Hours passed in this ordeal of investigation, and then the 
inquiry adjourned itself to the servants’ hall for dinner. 

Once more silence reigned through the closed and locked 
rooms, and Hermia felt that she was at liberty to return to 
Mount Moira, and accordingly ordered the dogcart to be 
brought round. 

The village was all in wild commotion as she drove through, 
and the sight of the familiar faces reminded her of Biddy Ma- 
guire and that she had not obeyed her summons. She ordered 
the man to stop at the Dalin’ Woman’s cottage, which he ac- 
cordingly did with ill-disguised surprise. 

The door was wide open, and through it Hermia saw a small 
crowd of women standing or sitting as the case might be. 
Their voices filled the air with ejaculations and surmises — 
wailing and woe. 

“ A h ! didn’t we always know it was himself as would make 
ye sup sorrow, Biddy woman ! The cruel raurtherin’ blay- 
guard, bringin’ this throuble on yer poor innocent head, an’ 
lavin’ ye in yer ould age widout roof or respectability — though 
divil a bit the worse will any one think av ye, Biddy agra, 
so don’t be blindin’ yer poor eyes wid tears, thinkin’ av 
that.” 

Into the midst of this consoling and consolatory crowd 
swept Hermia — her head towering over the bent and wailing 


KITTY THE RAG. 


263 


figures — her pale, sad face full of compassion for the poor 
stricken woman who sat dumbly beside her turf fire, the 
slow, salt tears streaming down her face — the sense of a 
heavier trouble than any she had yet known oppressing her 
heart. 

Hermia touched her lightly on the shoulder. 

“ Biddy,” she said, “ I want you to leave here and come to 
me at Mount Moira. It is not good for you to remain here all 
alone. Besides, Kitty wants you.” 

Biddy started and looked up incredulously. 

“God bless yer ladyship; ’tis you have the kind way wid 
you ! But sure I’m best here by me own hearth. Sorra a bit 
av comfort is there in the livin’ world for me from this hour. 
'Tis the black an’ bitter day, me lady, for you too. Shure, 
'tis only wonderin’ I am that ye should have a thought or a 
word for me at all.” 

“It is no fault of yours, Biddy; everyone knows that,” 
said Hermia. “ Come, promise me you will do what I ask. 
Kitty is ill — seriously ill. She will need careful nursing, and 
I am sure you would rather attend her than leave her to 
strangers.” 

Biddy staggered to her feet and look helplessly around. 

“Ah! wisha, wisha, more throubles and misfortunes! 
Shure, wasn’t I dramin’ av a magpie last night ? an’ I knew it 
wasn’t for nothing. Kitty ill — is that what ye’re afther sayin’, 
me lady — an’ will I be goin’ to her, is it ? Faith, an’ I will 
thin — this same blessed night. Just give me an hour to set the 
place in order ; an’ Johanna Reardon there, maybe ’tis her- 
self will stay an’ mind it for me ? Ah ! may the Lord look 
down on us ! ’Tis we have the misfortunes widout the strength 
to bear thim. Alanna machree ! alanna machree ! an’ what’ll 
we do this dark day at all, at all ! ” 

Hermia turned to the Swan, who seemed the most composed 
and dignified of this sympathizing circle. 

“Do persuade her to come,” she said softly, “and cheer 
her up if you can. The poor soul has indeed a heavy trial be- 
fore her.” 

She slipped some money into Johanna’s palm and turned 
away, leaving Biddy to the friendly offices and advice of her 
neighbors, who had seized upon this last bit of news with the 
eagerness of wondering envy. 

Kitty’s good luck was becoming quite a proverb among 
them ; and Kitty in the glories of invalidism, with doctors and 


264 


KITTY THE BAG. 


nurses, and all the adjuncts of medicine and food to boot, ac- 
quired a fresh importance in their eyes. 

They almost forgot Jim and his imminent peril, while im- 
pressing upon Biddy the great honor Lady Ellingsworth had 
done her, and urging her departure without loss of time. 

The poor Dalin’ Woman was mightily confused. It be- 
hoved her to make a change of toilet and also to take some 
necessary articles of clothing with her, and comments and sug- 
gestions were rife as to the wisdom of her selection — the prob- 
able length of her stay — and the mysterious suddenness of 
Kitty’s illness. 

At last the Swan came to the rescue with a noble assertion 
of the sacredness of sorrow, and a storm of magnificent ex- 
pressions that awed the gossipers into silence. 

One by one they dropped out of the kitchen and took their 
ways to their respective domiciles. 

The Swan then gave her undivided attention to Biddy’s 
preparations, and displayed a quite extraordinary readiness to 
take up the new office of caretaker, promising that neither 
stick nor stone should suffer the most infinitesimal amount of 
harm during Biddy’s absence, and winding up her decla- 
rations of loyal friendship by an offer to swear an alidi for Jim 
himself at the forthcoming inquest if his wife thought it an ad- 
visable proceeding. 

Considering that he had been caught red-handed, so to 
speak, and had further complicated matters by a partial con- 
fession, this offer could only be appreciated by a purely 
magnanimous mind with no bias in favor of right or prob- 
ability. 


KITTY THE RAG. 


265 


CHAPTER XL. 

And now followed a time of horrors and anxieties for all 
associated or connected with Knockrea. 

The inquest on Philip Marsden could have but one result, 
and Jim Maguire was committed to take his trial for wilful 
murder. 

Biddy’s grief and shame were fortunately rendered less 
acute by reason of the demands made on her nursing skill. 
Kitty’s illness was severe, though not actually dangerous, and 
it seemed only right and fitting to the household at Mount 
Moira that the girl should be attended by her foster-mother, 
with occasional help from the kind-hearted housemaid who 
had been given her as attendant by Lady Ellingsworth. 

As for Hermia herself, she was quite unable to do more than 
attend to her father’s affairs, and all the complications arising 
from this sudden tragedy. 

After the funeral was over, the lawyer who had come from 
Dublin asked for an interview with her and then communi- 
cated the contents of Philip Marsden’s will. 

Sheet after sheet of crackling parchment was turned, and the 
string of legacies, and statements as to disposal of personal 
property, were conveyed to Hermia’s ears in the choice am- 
biguous phraseology devised by the law to suit some myste- 
rious purpose of its own — quite beyond the exigencies of mere 
common sense. 

Very patiently and quietly she listened until the pith and 
purport of the document was reached. Then she started ever 
so slightly and a deep spot of crimson began to burn in her 
cheek as, puzzled and incredulous, she heard the extraordinary 
bequest of Philip Marsden : — 

“ And I give, devise and bequeath all the residue of this my 
personal estate and all the lands, tenements and hereditaments 
known* as Knockrea, situate in the parish of that name, to 
Hermia, Lady Ellingsworth, my daughter and only surviving 
child, in trust for Kitty Maguire — so called — the child adopted 
and brought up by one Bridget Maguire in this village of 
Knockrea, The aforesaid Kitty Maguire to enter into full and 


266 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


absolute possession thereof when she shall have attained the age 
of twenty-one years.” 

Hermia sprang to her feet in angry amazement. 

‘‘ What are you saying? It is preposterous — impossible ! ” 
she exclaimed. “ Kitty Maguire ! That beggar — that village 
child — why, my father must have been mad when he made such 
a will ! ” 

The old lawyer shook his head and laid down the docu- 
ment. 

“ I wish I could agree with you,” he said. ‘‘ For indeed 
it went sorely against my own inclinations to draw up such a 
will as this. But he was obdurate. He said he had his own 
reasons and that you would quite agree with them when you 
learnt their nature. Myself — I, of course, could only draw 
one conclusion — the natural, if not the most moral one. Your 
father had some strong interest in this child. Perhaps he knew 
who she really was — perhaps he had some atonement to make. 
We cannot tell — human nature is weak. Doubtless he will 
have explained it all to you. Lady Ellingsworth, in the letter 
of instructions he has left.” 

“ But that is not to be opened until the date mentioned on 
the cover,” said Hermia. ** Probably the date when the girl 
comes of age and enters into possession.” 

^‘It is very hard on you,” said the old lawyer. “Very 
hard ; but fortunately you have ample means of your own — 
or it might be possible to come to some arrangement by which 
you both should live here, and ” 

Hermia silenced him by an angry gesture. 

“Never! ” she said. “Do you think it possible that I 
would accept a favor at the hand of this beggar-girl who has 
supplanted me? Oh ! it is cruel — -infamous — to take what was 
my mother’s — what I have been taught and encouraged to look 
upon as my own — and give it away to this nameless bastard ! 
It ought not to be possible — there should be some means of 
preventing it.” 

“ Unfortunately there are none,” said the lawyer regretfully. 
“ The will is unassailable, and I could not honestly advise you 
to dispute a single point, much as I regret your position. Of 
course, there is just the chance that this girl — Kitty Maguire — 
isn’t that her name? — may refuse to take the property, and 
give it back to you by a deed of gift. You could then allow 
her a fair and sufficient income for herself and take up your 
rightful position here ^t Knockrea. I suriuise, of course, that 


KITTY THE RAG. 


267 


she has no legitimate interest in the matter — that your father 
did not contract a secret marriage, and this child is the 
offspring. Even then, as the younger daughter, she should 
waive her rights in favor of you.” 

“I know nothing about her,” exclaimed Hermia. <‘Nor 
can I give any reason for my father’s strange interest in her. 
She used to run wild about the village — every one thought the 
Maguires were her grandparents. Suddenly my father took it 
into his head to send her to an expensive school in England 
and have her taught to be what she considers a lady.” 

She laughed bitterly. 

** The girl is at present under my own roof,” she said. I 
played into his hands and took her as secretary and companion 
at his request. Who would have thought I was harboring — 
not an angel — but an heiress unawares ! ” 

The lawyer put his gold spectacles away into their case, and 
folded up the obnoxious conveyance of Philip Marsden’s last 
wishes. 

He felt very sorry for Hermia, whom he admired greatly 
and considered very badly used in the matter, but he could do 
nothing. His client had been sane and clear-headed enough 
when he gave him his instructions, and he could but put them 
into legal shape and form, however ill-advised and vengeful 
they seemed. 

The blow had fallen with cruel force on Hermia. She was 
utterly unprepared for it. She had never had the faintest sus- 
picion of her father’s intentions, or really supposed that his 
hints and sarcasms were but the disguise of a merciless pur- 
pose — a scheme brooded over and planned with revengeful de- 
termination for all these years — and of whose full meaning she 
was even yet in ignorance. 

It was little wonder that shame and indignation ran riot 
within her during the hours of that day — a day that placed her 
as an alien in the home of her childhood — that lent a double 
bitterness to every memory connected with it. 

And she had loved it so — she had been so proud of its 
steadily increasing prosperity — its culture and luxury — its 
growing importance — its carefully nursed and managed acres. 

And to think that this despised outcast — nurtured on the 
bread of charity — vain, wilful, ungrateful, as she had ever 
shown herself — that she was to reign here as queen and mis- 
tress of it all ! 

The thought was maddening. She threw herself back into 


268 


KITTY THE BAG, 


the chair and pressed her hands against her throbbing temples, 
and asked herself what she should do. 

To live here was impossible any longer. The cruel irony 
that seemed to leave her as mistress and trustee of what was 
another person’s property seemed but an added insult to the 
one great indignity her father had put upon her. Her whole 
nature rose in rebellion against the position. Live on here — 
manage Kitty’s house — Kitty’s property — Kitty’s servants — 
and then meekly give all back again in four years’ time ! Was 
ever so humiliating a situation contrived ? Often as she had 
felt that her father’s regard for her was of a very lukewarm 
nature — well as she knew the cause he had once had for anger 
— she yet had never dreamt that he would so humiliate her in 
the place of her birth — in the eyes of all who had known and 
loved her so long. 

If Philip Marsden could have looked down now on the an- 
guish and humiliation he had wrought in this proud soul, he 
might certainly have congratulated himself on the success of 
his scheme. 

The voice of the old lawyer broke on her angry and tur- 
bulent thoughts at last. 

May I ask,” he said, whether you have decided to re- 
main here as you have the right to do, or if you have any in- 
structions to give me? Your father has an excellent agent, 
and the property is in a highly creditable condition, but the 
question is about the house. Who will live here ? She — the 
young lady — or yourself? ” 

Hermia flushed wrathfully. 

— certainly not!” she said. ^‘Nothing would induce 
me to do so. With regard to the young lady, as you call her, 
Mr. Dillon, she is at present very ill. Too ill even to be told 
of her good fortune. The best thing will be to shut up the 
house and leave Mrs. Geoghagan and the butler in charge for 
the present. Doubtless, Kitty will be only too glad to take up 
her residence here at the first available moment.” 

Mr. Dillon rose and replaced the crackling parchment in 
his letter bag. He was returning to Dublin that evening, 
and the will had yet to be proved. 

<‘I can only again express my regrets,” he said. It is 
very hard on you. Lady Ellingsworth, very hard indeed. 
But there’s nothing to be done, and no way out of it un- 
less ” 

There is no unless said Hermia scornfully. << Nothing 


mTTY TEE RAG. 


269 


would induce me to accept as a favor what I have long looked 
upon as a right. My father has acted according to his own 
view of the matter. I am utterly in the dark as to his reasons, 
and he has chosen to leave me so for years to come. I must 
accept the situation. There is no more to be done — or said.” 

The lawyer bowed in grave acquiescence, and then left 
her. She sat for long at the well-known writing-table, her 
head leaning on her hands, trying to quell the angry tumult 
within her breast, to reconcile her wounded pride with the 
strange position forced upon her. 

She knew she would have to explain all to the servants, 
to hear their wondering comments, to read in their eyes the 
consuming curiosity which would be the result of her 
announcement. And then to think of Kitty here ! Kitty 
the mistress of Knockrea ! Her very blood boiled as she 
thought of it again, and pictured the girl’s triumph and inso- 
lent delight in such an unexpected honor. 

Who was this girl ? she asked herself. What right had she 
to this inheritance ? Could it be really, after all, that she was 
her father’s child, the offspring of some low amour or con- 
cealed marriage? 

Even if that were so he had acted very unjustly in giving 
her the dignities and wealth that should by all laws of right 
and primogeniture have been Hermia’s own. 

The more she thought of it the more indignant she 
became. But she knew it was useless to rebel against the 
inevitable, and she was far too proud to let the outer world 
see that she was suffering so keenly at this slight. 

Gradually the fever of her thoughts grew calm, she braced 
her energies to face the ordeal before her, and, rising from 
the table, she went into the dining-room where the old lawyer 
was enjoying an excellent bottle of port after an equally ex- 
cellent luncheon. 

Before you go, Mr. Dillon,” she said abruptly, ** I think 
it would be advisable to have all the servants in and explain 
what has happened. It would come better from you, and 
then I will give the necessary orders about the house, and ar- 
range who are to remain and who to be discharged.” 

Certainly, if you wish,” he said, but a little anxiety was 
in his voice. He had a dislike of “ scenes,” and he knew 
something of the capabilities of an Irish household when 
there is a question of dispensing with services, or altering 
long-standing arrangements. 


S70 


KITTY THE it AO. 


“ I do wish it,” said Hermia firmly. ** There is no use in 
postponing a disagreeable duty.” 

He sighed resignedly and finished his newly replenished 
glass with infinite enjoyment. The idea of such splendid wine 
being at a girl’s disposal ! he thought. A girl who didn’t 
know Chateau Yquem from shilling claret, and to whom the 
choice vintages of Spain would probably be unpalatable. 

Truly Fate played strange pranks both with fortunes and 
wine cellars sometimes ! 

At Hermia’s summons the old butler appeared, and received 
her orders with grave politeness. Evidently the master had 
not been forgetful of long and faithful services. 

In five minutes’ time all the establishment were collected 
in various stages of bashfulness, dignity, tidiness, or ex- 
pectation, and on their wondering ears fell the extraordinary 
statement as to the fate of the house and property they had 
confidently assigned to Lady Ellingsworth. 

Proud and calm, without a quiver of lip, or sign of the 
rage and humiliation within, Hermia stood up by Lawyer Dil- 
lon’s side as he made the announcement. 

Then she looked at the startled eager faces, and stayed the 
storm of sudden exclamations by a gesture. 

My father had every right to deal with his property as he 
chose,” she said. And I trust you will render your new 
mistress as faithful service as you would any member of the 
family whom you have known so long. With regard to the 
arrangements necessary in the household, I will let you know 
in a day or two. It will of course be unnecessary to keep up 
so large an establishment, and Miss Maguire will not enter 
into complete possession until she is of age. With regard to 
your legacies and wages, they will be duly paid by Mr. Dillon. 
I think that is all I need say, except to thank you all for your 
long and faithful services to the family and my father in par- 
ticular. Now you may go. Mrs. Geoghagan, I should like a 
few words with you alone after Mr. Dillon has left.” 

Awed into unaccustomed silence by the extraordinary 
news, no less than by the dignified confession of the speaker, 
the little crowd filed out of the room to give free vent to their 
feelings and amazement when the door closed behind them. 

It is not to be supposed that they would look calmly 
upon the usurper, or be satisfied that one who had the law- 
ful rights of birth and blood should be supplanted by a mere 
nobody like Kitty. 


KiTTr mt: mg. 


m 

A perfect storm of rage and indignation followed their 
assembling in the servants’ hall. Some declared they would 
never acknowledge the new mistress. Others, wiser and 
more self-seeking, declared many things might happen in the 
interim ; what use in raging against the girl who, from all ac- 
counts, lay on her death-bed at the present moment ? 

And by the same laws of natural contingencies,” ob- 
served this wiseacre, “won’t me lady herself be steppin’ 
into her own rights again, and no ‘ by your lave ’ about 
it ! ” 

However, neither the murder nor the funeral, nor any- 
thing else connected with the tragic events of this last week, 
had so exercised their minds and tongues as this startling an- 
nouncement that the beggar-brat, the village child, the ragged, 
nameless urchin they had all known as “Kitty the Rag,” was 
to be the mistress and owner of all this splendid property, and 
could, in their own parlance, “ howld up her head wid the 
best in the counthry,” if not by right of birth, at least by 
those undeniable rights of beauty, wealth, and position. 


272 


KITTY THE BAG. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Mrs. Geoghagan was awaiting Hermia in the library, 
attired in Russell cord and crape, and wearing an expression 
combined of sympathy and curiosity. 

Hermia, however, cut short her attempts at condolence with 
sharp discouragement. She explained briefly that owing to 
Kitty’s present condition nothing could be decided upon, 
but that in her own position as executrix and trustee she 
deemed it advisable to close the house and dismiss the 
staff of servants, with the exception of housekeeper and butler 
and one or two helpers. 

But, axin’ your pardon, me lady, won’t you be cornin’ to 
live here in the manetime?” inquired Mrs. Geoghagan. 
“Isn’t it yourself has more right than anybody else to the 
place belonging to your own mother’s family (her sowl to 
glory), and we all looking upon you as the new mistress av 
it?” 

“That is altogether beside the question,” said Hermia 
coldly. “ My father has chosen to act in this manner and we 
must accept his decision. I thought I would tell you this to- 
night, as you can then explain it to the servants, and make all 
the necessary arrangements. . . . This has been a long and 
trying day for me, and I am very tired. I am returning to 
Mount Moira almost directly. I hardly fancy that your new 
mistress will wish to take up her abode here immediately,” 
she added with unconscious sarcasm. “ In the first place she 
is seriously ill. In the next I should fancy she would wish to 
travel and see something of the world before settling down. 
But all that is for the future. Now pray don’t cry, my good 
Geoghagan,” she added hastily, as she caught sight of a black- 
bordered handkerchief being raised to a tearful eye. “ What 
is done is done, nothing can alter it. I suppose my father 
had excellent reasons for this disposition of his property, 
though it has taken me by surprise as much as yourself.” 

“Ah! indade thin, my lady, I have my own idays about 
that,” said Mrs. Geoghagan; “and mayhap I could throw a 
light on the same if I chose. But ’twas my own self said to 


KITTY THE RAG, 


273 


Biddy Maguire the first day as ivir the child Kitty come here 
to the house, and 'tis thrue, my lady, as I’m a livin’ woman, 
‘ Biddy,’ I says, * there’s something benayth all this. Schoolin’ 
and educaytin’ the likes av her,’ I says; * what does it all 
mane ? ’ Ah ! and ’twas she had the close tongue in her head, 
pretendin’ she’d no manner of knowledge of the raysons of it 
all — not that she decay ved me^ my lady, and take my oath ’tis 
herself could spake the thrue word if she had the mind to do 
it! ” 

‘MVell, well,” said Hermia impatiently, ** secret or no 
secret, what does it all matter? I am not going to dispute 
the will ; and by it Kitty becomes mistress of Knockrea 
House and all the surrounding property. I can but hope she 
will manage it wisely, or else marry some sensible man who 
will do that for her. It would be a thousand pities if it lapsed 
into its old neglected condition.” 

Ah 1 ’tis a sad day, my lady — a sad day for all av us,” 
said the housekeeper mournfully. ** And we lookin’ forward 
to welcome you here again. Ah ! shure, thunderstorms and 
earthquakes wasn’t in it wid the surprise av us whin Mr. 
Dillon gave us the information. But shure, my lady, there’s 
more will come av it than we know at prisint ; and ’tis Kitty 
herself (for me tongue wouldn’t get round wid ‘miss’ or 
‘ ma’am ’ to her, and that’s thruth for ye), ’tis she, as I say, 
will be sorry and shamed for art and part in it all, wheedlin’ 
the masther wid her airs and her ways, actin’ the gran’ lady 
here as if she was born to it ! ” 

“That is quite enough of the subject,” said Hermia im- 
patiently. “ Will you ascertain if the carriage has come round 
for me ? and then I will leave you to shut up the house and 
dismiss the servants. I shall not return here until it is abso- 
lutely necessary ; but of course if you require to see me, or 
are in any doubt, you can send to Mount Moira. The will 
must be proved before any of the legacies can be paid ; but 
Mr. Dillon will make arrangements about wages, and advance 
anything for current expenses. And now, good-bye.” 

She held out her hand, and the old woman seized it and 
pressed it to her lips with many expressions of affection and 
sympathy. 

Then Hermia dismissed her, and with one last look round 
the well-known room she left the house, and drove back to 
Mount Moira. 

Bitter indeed were her feelings as she leant back on the cush- 
18 


274 


KITTY THE RAG. 


ions, and closed her tired eyes, and gave herself up to the 
luxury of solitude and her own reflections. 

She who loved this place so dearly, who had worked and 
lived among the people, who was known and beloved far and 
wide, would now be humiliated in their sight — had been thrust 
aside as something of no account — that this child of chance 
might reign in her stead, and give free rein at last to those 
vanities and ambitions of which she had made no secret ! 

The more Hermia thought of it, the keener grew her suffer- 
ing. There was no spot on earth she loved so dearly as this 
home of her childhood : that fact made doubly bitter the 
sei/se of her banishment. 

And henceforth she would have no home. Mount Moira 
was only a temporary resting place, so to speak ; her husband’s 
property had all passed into other hands, and Knockrea, 
which she had always counted upon, despite her father’s strange 
hints at times, was now snatched from her without warning 
and given to one who had neither right nor interest in it. 

Tears of wounded pride and bitter disappointment rolled 
down her cheeks. She felt at that moment that she almost 
hated Kitty. 

When she reached Mount Moira she went at once to her 
room > and, giving orders that she was not to be disturbed, 
she locked the door, and for two hours gave herself up to the 
free indulgence of grief. 

At last she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and was only 
aroused by a soft knocking at the door, and the announcement 
that dinner was ready and that Mrs. Montressor had come over 
half an hour before and was waiting to see her. 

Hermia rose from the bed where she had thrown her- 
self. She felt sick and languid and utterly unfit for the con- 
ventionalities of life. She unlocked the door and bade the 
maid bring Judith up to her room. ‘‘ Then come back and 
help me to dress,” she said. I will only put on a tea-gown, 
and tell them to send something into the boudoir by way of 
dinner. I am not going downstairs.” 

The maid retired, and in a moment or two returned accom- 
panied by Judith Montressor. 

She looked at Hermia’s pale face and swollen eyes, and 
wondered if they were due to natural grief only. 

^‘I hope you don’t mind my coming in,” she said. 
thought you would be lonely. It must have been such a try. 
ing day.” 


nTTT THE RAG. 


275 


Hermia’s lips quivered faintly. She wondered what her 
friend would think when she heard of what the day had 
brought forth in the way of trial. 

She answered her briefly while the maid rearranged her dis- 
ordered hair, and helped her into a loose tea-gown of soft 
white silk. Then the two women went into the adjoining 
boudoir, and Hermia made an effort to swallow a few mouth- 
fuls of food, remembering that she had not broken her fast 
since morning. 

She scarcely spoke while the servant was in the room, and 
Judith, who knew every look and shade of her friend’s beauti- 
ful face, began to feel seriously uneasy. She knew that some- 
thing more than natural grief for her father’s loss had so 
marred and shadowed that beauty ; that pain and trouble of 
no small weight had laid their heavy touch on the troubled 
brow and feverish restless eyes. 

When at last they were alone her anxiety expressed itself. 

You are in trouble, dearest, you are suffering,” she said. 

*‘Yes, I am,” said Hermia briefly. have had a great 
shock, Judith. Of all misfortunes that could have happened 
to me, the worst and least expected has been my portion. Can 
you guess what it is ? ” 

‘‘Your father — his affairs, perhaps,” hazarded Judith. 

“Oh! his affairs are in perfect order,” said Hermia. 
“But he has left everything to — Kitty.” 

Judith Montressor gave a faint cry of wonder. “ To 
Kitty 1 ” she exclaimed. “ Impossible, my dear Hermia.” 

“It is quite true. I could scarcely believe it at first, but 
unfortunately there is no doubt left. I am simply a trustee of 
the property till she is of age. Then she becomes mistress of 
it all. I have nothing — not even a legacy I ” 

For a moment Judith was too astounded for speech. “It 
is most extraordinary, incomprehensible,” she said at last. 
“ What can be his reason for acting in such a manner?” 

“There is but one conclusion to be drawn,” said Hermia 
scornfully. “The suspicions we have had about his interest 
in the girl are no doubt correct. She is his child as well as 
myself, and he has chosen to provide for her and humiliate me 
for some reason of his own. I believe he explains it in a 
letter, but I am not at liberty to open that letter until a date 
fixed. The day when Kitty will be of age, I suppose.” 

Judith Montressor looked at her in veritable consternation. 
“ It is most extraordinary,” she said, “and it is cruelly hard 


276 


KITTY THE BAG, 


on you, Hermia. I suppose,” she added presently, ** Kitty 
does not know of this ? ” 

“ No, she is not in a condition to be told. She was deliri- 
ous all night again. Dr. Garrick says there is slight congestion 
of the lungs as well as the fever. Her condition is very 
serious.” 

Judith was silent again, following out her own train of 
thought. 

Hermia leant back in her chair, pale and exhausted from 
the trying ordeal of the day, and for a long time neither of 
them spoke. 

judith at last broke the silence. 

“Hermia,” she said, “one person could throw a light on 
this mystery. Why don’t you question her? ” 

“ You mean Biddy Maguire. I have thought of that, but I 
doubt whether she would tell us the truth.” 

“ I suppose,” suggested Judith, “ she never had a daughter? ” 

“ No,” said Hermia paling suddenly. “ Only one son.” 

“ There is certainly a mystery,” continued Judith. “Why 
not call Biddy in and ask her who Kitty really is, and why 
she adopted her? Perhaps she would tell you, now that all 
this good fortune has fallen into her lap.” 

Hermia looked thoughtful. “ I wonder if she would,” she 
said. “ I have a great mind to ask her.” 

She considered the point for a short time and then rang the 
bell. 

“Ask Mrs. Maguire if she can come here fora few mo- 
ments,” she said to the servant. “Let Kate O’Shea remain 
in the sick room while she is absent.” 

The man retired, and Hermia and Judith Montressor waited 
in anxious silence till the sound of a step and a timid knock 
announced Biddy’s arrival. 

She came into the room looking pale and worn with anxious 
days and nights, her neat black dress and white cap emphasiz- 
ing the change in her position, as well as the respect she 
deemed due to Lady Ellingsworth. 

Hermia greeted her with her usual kindliness. 

“ Take a chair, Biddy,” she said. “ I want to have a talk 
with you.” 

Biddy curtsied and obeyed silently. She was always some- 
what in awe of Hermia. 

“I want you to tell me all you know about Kitty,” con- 
tinued Hermia. “ I have good reasons for asking ; it is not 


KITTY THE BAG. 


277 


curiosity that prompts me. Circumstances have suddenly 
arisen which induce me to believe that my father must have 
had a great interest in her. Can you throw any light on the 
subject ? Do you know the circumstances of her birth, or 
who was her mother ? ” 

Biddy’s face grew white as death. She looked at Lady 
Ellingsworth in utter consternation. Indade thin, me lady, 
I do know,” she said, “ but my lips is sealed by a promise. I 
cannot tell Kitty herself, lave alone you, me lady ” 

‘‘Can you answer one question?” said Hermia coldly. 
“ Is she legitrnate or not ? ” 

“ To the best av my belief, me lady, she is noty though her 
mother was a lady sure enough.” 

“A lady ! ” Hermia started, and looked keenly at the old 
woman. She had been attributing some low amour to her 
father of which he had been secretly ashamed. To hear that 
Kitty’s mother was not some mere peasant or village beauty 
who had caught his fancy, was both a shock and a surprise. 

“ You are sure of this, Biddy? ” she went on eagerly. 

“Troth and I am, me lady, as sure as that I’m a living 
soul this day, and more than that I daren’t be tellin’ ye, for 
'twas the solemn oath I took not to betray the saycret till lave 
was given me, or under sayle of confession.” 

“Oh! an Irish oath!” exclaimed Hermia scornfully. 
“ Why, Biddy, they’re a proverb in the land. There is a 
moral fitness in all things, but why you should make a secret 
of Kitty’s birth, when it is now of the utmost importance I 
should know who she is, I really cannot imagine.” 

Biddy was silent. Her withered hands were nervously 
plaiting her apron, her eyes never looked at her questioner. 

“ It’s sorry I am to seem disobligin’, me lady,” she said at 
last. “ But it’s not in my power to tell ye more; if so be” 
— and she glanced up hesitatingly — “ if his honor hasn’t left 
word behind, or a hint av why he took the interest in the 
child ? Are you sure, me lady, there’s not a bit av writin’ 
somewheres? ” 

“Yes, there is a letter,” said Hermia reluctantly, “ but I 
am not to open it till Kitty is of age, and then — well, you 
may as well know it now as to-morrow, Biddy — then she be- 
comes the mistress of Knockrea House and all my father’s 
property.” 

“Blessed Mother in Heaven ! what is it ye’re afther savin’, 
me lady ? Shure, it’s dramin’ I am intirely ! Kitty, my 


278 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Kitty, the misthress of the big house, and — oh ! may the 
Lord be merciful to us this blessed day, the wrong is to be 
righted at last.” 

The wrong ! ” exclaimed Hermia angrily. What wrong 
do you mean, Biddy ? It is 1 who am wronged by this extra- 
ordinary piece of injustice. Perhaps now you will recognize 
that I have an absolute right to ask who and what this girl is, 
and why my father has made her his heir — to my discredit.” 

Biddy rose to her feet. She was trembling like a leaf, and 
her face looked scared and bewildered. 

“ Don’t ax me, me lady, don’t ax me,” she said huskily. 

’Twould sind me sowl to purgatory, 'twould be a sorry day 
and hour for your own self whin one wurrd was spoken. Let 
it rest as his honor wished, and be shure of this, me lady, 
that if ye knew who Kitty was ye’d not be begrudging her the 
luck that’s come to her. . . . Ah ! there’s the good God 
above, and He knows what’s best for us, glory be to His holy 
name.” 

She crossed herself, curtsied low, and then left the room. 

Hermia looked at Judith Montressor, who had been a silent 
witness of the interview. 

“ You heard,” she said. What is your opinion now ? ” 

I think,” said Judith very gently, that it is the same as 
yours, Hermia.” 


KITTY THE BAG, 


279 


CHAPTER XLII. 

The weary days dragged on, and Hermia saw them go by 
with a strange and listless indifference. It seemed to her 
that she had lost all interest in life, all concern in the passage 
of time, or the events and incidents of the weeks as they 
drifted by. She saw no one except Judith, or Dr. Carrick. 
She refused herself even to Laurence Moria. She rarely left 
the house, and allowed all matters connected with Knockrea 
to be arranged by the lawyer or agent. Nothing would in- 
duce her to go near the place from which she had been so 
humiliatingly ousted. 

Once or twice Mrs. Geoghagan came to her for instructions 
and directions as to the storage of plate and linen and other 
articles, but even she could not induce Hermia to give any 
personal superintendence to these matters. 

The big house looked strangely desolate. The rooms were 
dismantled, the furniture covered, the windows barred and 
closed. Meanwhile at Mount Moira its prospective owner was 
in utter unconsciousness of her good fortune, and was slowly 
fighting her way back to life and convalescence. 

Jim Maguire lay in Limerick Jail awaiting his trial, and 
Biddy, racked by anxiety and tortured by the uncertainty of 
his fate, still lingered on at Mount Moira in her office of nurse. 

It seemed to Hermia that she had never before put in such a 
period of intense misery, of acknowledged hopelessness, of 
utter disgust and weariness with life and all appertaining to it. 
Love had played her false, marriage had been but disappoint- 
ment and shame. A brief period of freedom had called her 
better feelings into play and awakened her dormant energies, 
and then this last most crushing blow had been suddenly dealt, 
and she found herself unable to face life in the future with 
either hope or courage. Worst of all, a slow, resentful dislike 
to Kitty as the author of these misfortunes had begun to work 
within her heart. Even when the girl hovered between life 
and death she only felt a passive indifference as to her fate. 
She only tried to hide with shamed gladness the thought that 
there still might be one way out of the nightmare of trouble 


280 


KITTY THE BAG. 


oppressing her night and day — one way by which the wrong 
could be righted, and she still reign acknowledged mistress of 
her old home. 

But youth and strength triumphed at last, and a day came 
when Kitty was pronounced out of danger, and from that hour 
her recovery was wonderfully rapid. 

Soon she was able to sit up in her own room, nursed and 
tended by Biddy’s devoted care, and rejoicing in the gentle 
languor of slowly returning strength. 

No word had been said by Biddy of her strange good for- 
tune. Some instinct seemed to tell her that Lady Ellings- 
worth was the proper person to make the communication, and 
she awaited her pleasure with silence and patience. 

Since that interview between them Lady Ellingsworth had 
scarcely spoken to her except on matters connected with the 
sick room, and Biddy observed an equal reserve. She felt it 
must be very hard for this proud, beautiful woman to see her- 
self supplanted and deprived of what she had looked upon as 
her lawful heritage. But her lips were sealed. She dared not 
speak. Some day the truth would be known — some day Lady 
Ellingsworth, proud and cold as she seemed, would acknowl- 
edge that the ends of justice had been reached. Thus in her 
faithful, ignorant fashion she consoled herself. 

At last, however, Hermia felt that she could no longer delay 
the explanation. Kitty was able to sit up in her room all 
day now, the only remains of her illness being a slight 
cough which the doctor declared she would shake off in 
time. 

The damp autumn weather was most unfavorable to recov- 
ery ; and the girl looked very frail and languid when Lady 
Ellingsworth sought her late one afternoon when Biddy had 
gone downstairs to her tea. 

Kitty was lying on a couch by the fire. She looked up in 
some surprise as she saw who was her visitor. 

Hermia drew up a chair, and stirred the coals to a brighter 
blaze. There was no light in the room but that of the fire. 

** You are very much better, are you not?” she asked. 

*^Oh, I am almost well,” said Kitty, raising herself from 
the pile of pillows. I shall soon be able to go downstairs I 
hope. I’m sure,” she added, that I have given you a great 
deal of trouble in addition to your other anxieties.” 

** I think,” said Hermia coldly, you were excessively fool- 
ish to linger in that storm as you did, I cannot understand 


KITTY THE RAG. 


281 


why you had not reached the house before the worst of it 
came on 1 ” 

Kitty flushed crimson. She knew perfectly well that the 
delay had been owing to her own outburst of temper, to that 
little ebullition of spite and jealousy when Lady Ellingsworth 
had driven off by Laurence Moira’s side. 

She said nothing, and for a moment or two silence reigned 
in the room. 

suppose,” said Hermia at last, ^^that you are well 
enough to hear some news — it is good news — even though un- 
expected.” 

Kitty looked at her eagerly. ‘^Ncws?” she echoed. 
** Concerning me? ” 

“Yes, I have been waiting till you were strong enough to 
bear the shock — if good fortune is ever a shock. In fact, 
Kitty, without further preamble, I have come here to tell you 
that my father has left you all his money ; that you will be 
mistress of Knockrea when you reach the age of twenty-one.” 

The girl sprang to her feet, white and trembling, and gazed 
with blank astonishment at Hermia. 

“ Knockrea — to me ! — Mr. Marsden ! ” she gasped. “ Lady 
Ellingsworth, is this a jest — are you making sport of me? ” 

She sank back on the couch once more, her eyes fastened 
in incredulous wonder on the pale proud face of the woman 
she had always envied. 

“ Why should I tell you what is not true?” said Hermia 
coldly. “ I have simply stated a fact. It is perfectly incom- 
prehensible to me why my father has done this. He gives no 
reason. I believe you are nearly eighteen, are you not? Well, 
in little more than three years you will be undisputed mistress 
of the Knockrea property. I suppose I ought to congratulate 
you for making such excellent use of your opportunities when 
you were staying at the house. My father has given undeni- 
able proof of his affection for you.” 

Kitty sat like one stunned. She could not fully realize this 
wonderful news — could not believe that her wild dreams of 
wealth, freedom, independence, were at last verified. It 
seemed like the ending of a fairy tale, altogether too good to 
be true. 

“ You seem bewildered,” continued Hermia presently. “ Is 
it so hard to believe in good fortune ? I thought perhaps the 
news might not be quite — unexpected. Did my father never 
give you any hint pf his intentions? ” 


282 


KITTY THE BAG. 


** Never ! ” exclaimed Kitty. Never once. Indeed, the 
last time I saw him he told me he had done all he intended for 
me. He spoke as if I had nothing more to expect at his 
han4s.” 

It has taken every one by surprise,” said Hermia. But 
facts are facts. Of course, you will gain no immediate benefit 
from your position. I hold everything in trust for you till you 
are of age. But I shall allow you a suitable income, and if 
you take my advice you will go abroad and complete your edu- 
cation, and try to fit yourself for a position that will be no 
easy one. The scheme of adopting music as a profession of 
course falls to the ground. You will not need to work for a 
living. But the more accomplished and the better educated 
you are, the easier you will find it to overcome the prejudices 
of society. Your future here will depend greatly on yourself. 
You know, or perhaps you do not know, the peculiarities of 
the Irish gentry. In spite of your wealth and in spite of your 
position, they may refuse to know you. It is not unlikely. 
You see every one in the village remembers your antecedents. 
There is nothing harder to live down than such memories ! ” 

Kitty’s face had grown scarlet as the low scornful voice 
spoke out these hard truths. She began dimly to realize that 
she might after all find little enjoyment in her new dignities. 
She was not to the manner born.” People would be ready 
enough to remind her of the fact, and half the enjoyment of 
her good fortune would be gone if she could not queen it over 
the county. 

A little vague distrust of herself began to take the place of 
her first elation. She spoke almost humbly. I will do what- 
ever you think best. Lady Ellingsworth,” she said. You 
were very good to take me in here, and I am not ungrateful. 
Of course I know my own deficiencies. I am not a lady born 
like you.” 

There was a mixture of shyness and eagerness in her face 
that half disarmed Hermia’s repellent attitude. 

She looked so young, so lovely, so fragile, that for a mo- 
ment the elder woman’s heart went out to her in a rush of an- 
swering sympathy. After all, Kitty was not to blame for what 
had happened ; and who knew but that she had a right, equally 
with herself, to this coveted heritage ? 

will do my best for you,” she said more gently than she 
had yet spoken. ** I think myself you are more to be pitied 
than envied. Wealth is a great responsibility. It relieve^ 


KITTY THE BAG, 


283 


some of our burdens, but it lays others upon us equally heavy. 
Above all, wealth to you will mean the danger of unhappiness. 
Men will woo you, and you will distrust them. Flatterers will 
surround you, and you will find it hard to distinguish false 
friends from true. Every success will make you fresh enemies, 
every false step will prove the worth of untrustworthy coun- 
sellors. I speak from knowledge of the world, and experience 
of life — life that has no path of thornless roses even for beauty 
and wealth and youth to tread.” 

The swift sudden tears of weakness and perplexity sprang to 
the girl’s eyes. It seemed to her that the first cloud, small 
as a man’s hand,” was already hovering on the horizon of her 
firmament of joy. 

She shrank from putting into words her own confidence, her 
own hopes. She only remembered that she would have to face 
one day a social tribunal, over which women like Lady Ellings- 
worth reigned, and that they would pass judgment upon her as 
only women of assured birth and position are at liberty to do. 

She grew very pale, and Lady Ellingsworth noted her dis- 
tress, and thought that after all the girl might have good points 
— might be capable of taking a place in the world that would 
at least be creditable if not distinguished. 

Her hands, white and fragile with illness, lay clasped on 
the white flannel dressing-gown she wore, and Hermia’s eyes 
rested on them with sudden curiosity. Then her glance fell 
on her own. They were singularly, almost identically alike. 
The recognition of that fact raised a sudden anger in her 
breast. She had always been renowned for the beauty and 
perfect shape of her hands ; but — they were an inheritance 
from her mother’s family. 

Abruptly she rose from her low chair by the fire and pushed 
it aside. 

We must not talk anymore to-night,” she said. ‘*You 
look fatigued, and Biddy will blame, me for overexciting you. 
Try and rest, and don’t think more than you can help of all 
this.” 

She moved away as she spoke, and at the same moment 
Biddy entered the room. 

I have told her,” said Hermia coldly and passed out, leav- 
ing the old woman and her charge together. 

Biddy closed the door and advanced slowly. 

** Shall I light the candles, darlin’ ? ” she asked. 

ISfo,” said Kitty nestling back among her pillows, 


284 


KITTY THE BAQ. 


“ Stir up the fire and sit there and let us have a good long 
talk. Oh ! Biddy, have you heard — do you know what’s hap- 
pened ? ” 

‘‘Troth and I do, darlin’. I know that ye’re to be the 
misthress of Mr. Marsden’s place, every stick and stone av it ! 
and a rare piece of good luck, more by means that it wasn’t 
ivir expected. Know, is it ? why, iviry tongue in the village 
is blabbing of nothing else. Shure ’tis the grandest news 
they’ve had this many a day.” 

“I can hardly believe it’s true,” said Kitty, closing her 
eyes with languid enjoyment. “ Why, Mr. Marsden was 
hardly civil to me the last time I saw him. Certainly he has 
never shown me any affection, and surely it is very unfair to 
Lady Ellings worth to leave everything away from her.” 

“ Thrue for ye, alanna, it is that,” agreed Biddy, “ and it’s 
a heavy heart she’s carryin’ this day for all she seems so proud 
and indifferent. But shure, it’s not for the likes av us to be 
meddlin’ wid the rights and wrongs of the matter. ’Twas a 
hard end and a cruel the poor man had, and meself is the 
shamed and heart-broken woman, Kitty child ; and, indade, 
if Mr. Marsden had known who fired that shot it’s another 
sort of last will and testaymint intirely that he’d have been 
makin’, and not you or any Maguire in the place ’ud have been 
found in that.'' 

“ But I am not a Maguire, really ? ” said Kitty opening her 
eyes and looking eagerly at the old woman’s troubled face. 
“ Oh ! shall I ever learn the truth of my birth? It is hard, 
horribly hard, Biddy, not to know my own name, not to know 
why I have been cast off in this fashion. Oh ! Biddy dear,” 
she added with sudden soft entreaty, “won’t you tell me now 
— at last ? Surely I have a right to know. Surely you might 
strain a point and give me some hint, even if you won’t trust 
me entirely.” 

Biddy shook her head. “I cannot,” she said; “ not yet. 
But the truth is bound to come out, child, and the day is not 
far off; rest contint as ye are. Maybe, alanna, ye’ll have more 
cause for grief than joy whin ye learn the saycrit I’ve kept so 
long ! ” 

Kitty was silent. Her suspicions had grown stronger since 
the news of her fortune. Philip Marsden was the last man on 
earth to have made such a will had he not been in some way 
compelled by a sense of duty and obligation. Well, she re- 
flected, in any case, nothing could rob her of that inheritance, 


KITTY THE EAG. 


285 


Strange and unaccountable as it seemed, she was in a fair way 
to realize those dreams of her childhood whose first roots had 
been discontent and envy. 

She lay there in the firelight, and let her thoughts drift back 
to that hateful time in order that contrast with the present 
might appear the more delightful. No need to labor, no need 
to strive and rebel and vex herself as of late ; no need to fear 
rivalry of beauty or of wealth ; no need, indeed, to fear any- 
thing except that mystery of her birth — except the revelation 
of some shame or secret wrong which should cling to her 
future even as it had clouded her past. 

She shrank from following this thought too closely. In its 
place she let another glide,' elf-like, from some sylvan hiding- 
place of fancy. It was a pleasant thought to all appearance, 
for the rich color crept into her face, and her eyes had a strange, 
shy light in their glowing depths. I wonder what he thinks 
of me now ! ” it whispered. 


286 


KITTY THE BAG. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

<<He” — if that undistinguished pronoun meant Laurence 
Moira — was just then occupied a great deal with thoughts of 
Kitty. 

Her accident, her illness, and then her sudden leap into for- 
tune and notoriety had naturally brought her personality before 
him in strange and perplexing guise. The servants at Knock- 
rea had spread the news of the will far and wide, and even the 
murder had engaged tongues and speculation less than the fact 
of Kitty the Rag’s heiress-ship. 

The Swan and the Red Hen talked themselves hoarse, and 
the latter grew more mysterious and more prophetic than ever. 

These two characters had established themselves comfortably 
in Biddy’s cottage, and made themselves quite at home with 
her goods and chattels, as well as the stock of eatables she had 
left behind her. As week after week passed they began to 
consider themselves part owners of the premises, and to as- 
sume a new dignity and importance by reason of so respectable 
a domicile. With that happy knack of jumping at conclusions 
that distinguishes the Irish character, they had almost settled 
that Biddy would live at Mount Moira or Knockrea for the 
future, and that they would remain “ tenants at ease ” of her 
deserted cottage, as, of course, Kitty would never expect such 
a thing as rent from old friends like themselves. 

So they made themselves thoroughly at home, and consid- 
ered that Providence had been unusually considerate of them 
in their old age. 

Meantime Laurence Moria found no means of satisfying his 
curiosity respecting Kitty. He did not like to gossip about 
her with the farmers, or village folk. He was unable to see 
Lady Ellingsworth, and Mrs. Montressor could tell him noth- 
ing. As the summer waned and autumn drew on apace he 
began to miss those evenings at the house more and more. It 
was dull work reading treatises on farming, instead of listening 
to the pleasant chatter of cultivated and graceful women, to 
hear the loud tones of Larry Dunn’s wife scolding the children, 
or farm-servants, instead of the music of Kitty’s voice breath- 
ing out the lovely old melodies he loved. 


KITTY THE EAG. 


287 


Mrs. Montressor asked him over to dine once or twice, but 
as the weather broke and the incessant rains commenced, he 
did not care about driving in an open vehicle for so many 
miles, after facing wind and wet the greater part of the day. 
He worked hard and incessantly ; he tried to inspire these 
lazy and careless people with something of his own hopeful- 
ness and ardor. Wherever he found such virtues as heredi- 
tary principle or loyalty, he did his utmost to foster and en- 
courage them. 

He had studied the ways of the peasantry long enough to 
know them. He had a keen comprehension of their weak- 
nesses, habits, and prejudices. He could appreciate fine 
touches of character — the wit and humor and patience and 
stoicism which make the Irishman part buffoon, part hero, and 
incomprehensible to almost every one except himself and his 
nation. Having once undertaken the work of agent he meant 
to carry it through, and he showed that he meant it. There 
was no question of startling, only a careful and incessant in- 
terest in all and every tenant’s welfare, needs and doings. 
Personal supervision did wonders. The stimulus of rivalry 
and good-humored banter set many a lazy man to work, and 
produced its effects on ragged hedges, un weeded gardens, 
broken fences, and the hundred and one ‘^dilapidations” 
which mark so many Irish properties. 

His own relationship to their absentee landlord gave him an 
influence with the tenants that no stranger would have had, 
and Micky Corrigan’s example was a strong incentive to others. 

“ Ah, ’tis the thrue blood’s in him ! Shure, ’tis he’s the 
rale gintleman to dale with ! ” was the universal comment, and 
the idea of getting equal with “ schamin’ upstarts,” such as 
the prosperous farmers of Knockrea or Dunsane, stimulated 
k many of the Mount Moira tenantry to work with a will in 
preparation for the next seedtime and harvest. 

Laurence Moira had considerable difficulty at first in getting 
sufficient money from his uncle for really necessary repairs and 
improvements. Some portion he himself advanced, knowing 
that he could repay himself out of the rentals, and feeling 
certain that no one would be more pleased and astonished than 
Gerald Moira when he returned, and saw that his property had 
improved into a flourishing and respectable estate. 

But that, of course, lay in the future. A great deal would 
have to be done before such agreeable results were evident. 
Laurence Moira’s own idea, however, was to “ get af them,” 


288 


KITTY THE BAG. 


as he termed it. To have a personal interest and a personal 
incentive, and to work on their feelings so strongly that they 
might be safely left to mutual emulation and good-humored 
rivalry for results. 

So in these dreary autumn evenings he studied, wrote, and 
planned, and finally worked out a thoroughly effectual scheme 
for rendering Mount Moira a credit instead of what it had 
long been — a disgrace to the country. 

But all this did not occupy his thoughts too exclusively, for 
the intrusion of Kitty’s face, Kitty’s lovely eyes, Kitty’s won- 
derful voice, and strange history. 

He by no means thought her perfect. He had read even in 
their brief acquaintance something of that pride and envy and 
intolerance which went far to mar the girl’s character. But 
he told himself that her youth and her strange bringing-up 
excused much that in another would have seemed inexcusable. 
The right influence, the right training would do all that was 
necessary to make her almost as perfect as was Lady Ellings- 
worth. There lay his ideal. He could form no higher con- 
ception of loftly and high-souled womanhood. There was 
nothing in her or about her that did not to his thinking ex- 
press what was noble, beautiful and self-sacrificing. Wherever 
he went he heard her praises, and they were sweet in his ears ; 
and when, after the tragedy that had fallen on her life, he 
learnt the strange story of her disinheritance, he felt all the 
chivalry and devotion of knighthood glow within his veins at 
the thought of her sufferings and her wrongs. 

He longed for some sign, for a summons to her presence, 
but none came. She seemed to have forgotten his very exist- 
ence, and he would not force himself upon her notice. It was 
sufficient that she was unhappy, that she chose to remain iso- 
lated ; that he could do her work and save her trouble and 
annoyance. He asked nothing more. It would be useless to 
deny, however, that he was curious about this whim of Philip 
Marsden’s — that he would not have given a great deal to dis- 
cover the secret tie associating Kitty Maguire with the strange, 
cold-hearted, selfish recluse who had owned Knockrea, and was 
so universally disliked. Yet he gave no sign of his curiosity, 
but simply listened and commented upon what he heard, and 
drew his own conclusions. He no longer wondered that Lady 
Ellingsworth had shut herself up in this strange fashion — that 
she shrank from either pity or remark. He felt humbled for 
her humiliation, indignant at her wrongs. That Kitty herself 


mTTY TBE RAQ. 


S89 


was blameless he knew ; but she was the instrument that had 
dealt this cruel blow to the woman who had so generously be- 
friended her, and she suffered in his thoughts accordingly. 

Many weeks had drifted by, when at last a note came for 
him from Hermia asking him over to dinner, and to spend the 
night. 

He accepted it with a gladness that proved how sorely he 
had missed and longed for the summons. He reached the 
house just in time to dress for dinner, and went down to the 
familiar drawing-room with a strange, nervous thrill of heart 
that surprised himself. 

Kitty was there alone. She was sitting by the fire. She 
wore a simple white gown of some soft thick material, with 
not an ornament or a flower to relieve its unadorned simplic- 
ity. Her illness had left a certain delicacy and fragility be- 
hind that lent her a charm of refinement she had previously 
lacked. As she rose to greet the young man a faint blush 
swept through the ivory pallor of her skin — touching even the 
tips of her delicate little ears. 

Her beauty came to him as a fresh surprise. He was so ab- 
sorbed in its contemplation, that he forgot he was holding her 
hand an unnecessarily long time. He released it suddenly and 
took the chair near her own. 

“ So you are quite well again,” he said. Do you know, 
I have never forgiven myself for leaving you behind that day? 
I should have insisted on getting out, and letting Lady Ellings- 
worth drive.” 

‘*Then, perhaps she would have met with an accident,” 
said the girl lightly ; and that would have been a thousand 
times worse. Don’t look so regretful, Mr. Moira, it can’t be 
helped now.” 

‘‘But why,” he persisted, “did you linger behind such a 
long time ? You had fully a quarter of an hour to reach the 
house before the full violence of the storm, and yet you were 
found in the very place where we had left you.” 

Kitty’s face grew rosy red once more. “Oh ! what is the 
use of talking about it now?” she said petulantly. “I was 
foolish, and I have paid the penalty of my folly. Surely that 
is enough. I wanted to ask you something about Mr. Mars- 
den’s murder. Do you remember that man we met who was 
hiding his gun in the hedge ? ” 

“Of course I do,” said Laurence Moria, “he is nowin 
jail on suspicion of being the murderer.” 

19 


290 


KITTY THE BAG. 


** Do you think he did it — really? ” asked Kitty. 

I haven’t the slightest doubt on the point,” said the 
young man. “ The evidence is as plain as it can be. He was 
caught in the act of escaping, and he still had the discharged 
gun. Besides, he was so drunk that he partly confessed it. I 

oh ! but I remember you told me you were interested in this 

man Maguire.” 

“Yes, though I have always disliked him. It is for his 
wife, poor Biddy, that I feel. It will be an awful blow to 
her.” 

“And yet, from all accounts, a good riddance,” said 
Laurence Moria. “ The man is a regular ne’er-do-well-— an 
idle, mischievous loafer, for ever drinking and talking sedition. 
He had no real grievance against Mr. Marsden, only he be- 
longed to a society vowed to the suppression of landlords. 
Poor fools, it is hard to convince them they would be worse 
off left to each other’s tender mercies than in the hands of the 
strictest landowner in the country.” 

“ Oh ! they are awful people,” exclaimed Kitty. “I shall 
be thankful to get out of the country, and I intend to do as 
soon ” 

She stopped abruptly. 

Their eyes met. “ Ah ! yes. I have not congratulated you 
on your good fortune,” said young Moira in a somewhat con- 
strained voice. “ Of course, I have heard of it. You no not 
intend living on your property, then ? ” 

“ It will not be in my power to do so for some years,” 
she said, “ so I shall go abroad. I have always longed to 
do so. Now, at last, I have the chance.” 

He was about to answer, when the door opened to admit 
Lady Ellingsworth and Judith Montressor. 

The young man was startled to see how ill Hermia looked. 
An intense melancholy brooded in her eyes and threw its 
shadow over the brilliant loveliness of old. Her very voice 
seemed changed, and into its rich music had crept a minor 
note of hopelessness. 

She greeted him without any gladness or welcome, and he 
felt his heart sink at the change he read. A sort of con- 
straint rested on the whole party, and the announcement of 
dinner was a relief. Laurence and Judith Montressor had 
most of the conversation to themselves. The presence of 
the servants made it unadvisable to enter upon any topic 
connected with recent events. It seemed to Laurence 


KITTY TEE RAQ, 


291 


Moira as if the whole atmosphere of the place had changed 
since last he had sat at that same table, and been one of 
those same guests. 

When the ladies left he asked permission to accompany 
them. He felt no inclination to linger over his wine alone, 
and Lady Ellingsworth ordered coffee at once in the drawing- 
room. 

The room looked charming and homelike in the glow of 
fire and candle light. Lady Ellingsworth had transformed 
it entirely since her tenancy of Mount Moira, and Laurence 
found himself wondering if it could really be the same room. 
He made a fresh effort to break through the cordon of 
restraint that seemed to surround them all, but all his efforts 
were unavailing. 

Kitty was ill at ease and self-conscious; Lady Ellings- 
worth sat apart, melancholy and silent, and he and Judith 
Montressor found few subjects sufficiently impersonal to dis- 
cuss. 

At last he suggested some music. **If you only knew," 
he said, “ how I have pined for a song, or a bit of Chopin or 
Mendelssohn, as a variation to Mrs. Dunn’s scolding voice, 
and the children’s unmusical squalls, you would pity me ! ’’ 

Hermia glanced at Kitty. << Will you sing for us? ’’ she 
said. ** That is to say, if you feel equal to the exertion." 

**Oh! I am quite well now," said the girl eagerly. 
<*But it is so long since I have sung that I hardly know 
how I shall get on." 

** I’ll play for you," said Judith Montressor, going over to 
the Broadwood grand and opening it. 

Laurence Moira dropped into the vacant chair by 
Hermia’s side. 

She glanced at him. sent for you to-night," she 
said, ** because I have a proposition to make. I am sure 
you are most uncomfortable at Larry Dunn’s. I want you 
to take up your abode here instead. I have decided to go 
abroad, to Italy, almost immediately. I may be away a 
long time, months, years, I can hardly say. But I feel I am 
under certain obligations to your uncle, and I should like 
to think you were here, and that the household would be 
under your charge. I hope you will agree to my sugges- 
tion." 

But," he said, ‘‘the Italian scheme was only on account 
of ” 


292 


KITTY THE RAO, 


She made an impatient gesture. **You. mean that in 
Kitty’s altered position it will not be necessary to adhere to 
our old plans for her. True, but she wishes to leave Ireland 
all the same, and I must place her in safe hands. I am, in 
a way, left responsible for her.” 

As if moved by the same impulse, they both looked at 
the slender young figure standing by the piano. Mrs. 
Montressor struck the opening chords of ** Shule Agra,” and 
Kitty began to sing the first phrase. 

Suddenly, without warning, her voice broke ; a harsh 
croaking note escaped in place of the lovely full volume of 
sound she had been wont to breathe. 

She stopped dismayed, her hand went to her throat. 
<<Oh — what is it?” she cried piteously. ‘‘My voice is 
gone ! ” 

They all surrounded her. Judith tried to soothe her. 
“It is only weakness,” she said compassionately. “You will 
find it will be all right as you grow stronger.” 

But Kitty only stood there white and dumb, the great 
tears rolling down her cheeks. 

For she knew that the “ bird in her throat” was silenced 
for ever. That the one glory and pride of her life had been 
taken from her, that never again would she thrill the hearts 
and enchant the ears of those who had prophesied she 
might be a world’s wonder. 

As she saw their pitying eyes, a great wave of misery 
seemed to break over her heart. She covered her face with 
her hands, and with a low, sobbing cry she rushed from the 
room. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


293 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

They looked at each other in consternation as the door 
closed. 

What was it? ” asked young Moira. 

*‘Her voice seemed to crack suddenly,” said Mrs. Mon- 
tressor. *^It was very curious. I remember a similar case, a 
girl who had a lovely soprana voice, and she caught a violent 
cold, and had inflammation of the vocal cords. She could never 
sing again without the chance of her voice cracking on a note 
in the same unexpected fashion. Doctors could do nothing. 
They thought she would recover in time, but she never did. 
Her very apprehension of a catastrophe spoilt her nerve. Per- 
haps that exposure to the storm has injured Kitty’s throat in a 
similar manner. However” — and she glanced at Hermia’s 
face — ‘Mt is not of such consequence now, she does not re- 
quire to earn her livelihood any longer.” 

‘^She seemed terribly distressed,” said Laurence Moira, a 
vivid memory of that piteous face and those tear-filled eyes 
flashing before him. 

“ Naturally she would be,” said Lady Ellingsworth, turning 
away from the piano. “ She was excessively vain of her one 
accomplishment.” 

Moira wondered that she was so unsympathetic. His ideal 
seemed to lose something of perfect womanliness in that 
moment. 

They all moved back toward the fire, and he returned to 
Lady Ellingsworth’s proposition. “ I shall of course be de- 
lighted to stay here,” he said. <‘But I trust you will not 
make it a matter of years j Lady Ellingsworth. We cannot do 
without you in this part of the country. They are too many 
absentee landlords already.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Judith Montressor, ** you need not be alarmed, 
Mr. Moira. It will not be a question of years, I am sure. 
Lady Ellingsworth is far too fond of Ireland to endure volun- 
tary banishment. When she has recovered her health and 
spirits we shall have her back again in the old country, I am 
certain,” 


294 


KITTY THE RAO, 


** I am distressed to find you looking so ill/’ said Laurence 
Moira, glancing at the beautiful, melancholy face turned so 
listlessly away from them. “ I fear all this terrible business 
has been too much for your strength.” 

Hermia grew a shade paler. ‘‘It was very terrible,” she 
said ; “ and the trial has still to come off ; that will be a worse 
ordeal than all.” 

They discussed its various points and probabilities ; the hope- 
lessness of Jim Maguire’s case, and the reason of his rooted 
hatred of Philip Marsden. 

Half an hour glided by. Kitty did not return, and a sense 
of disappointment crept over Laurence Moira. The whole 
evening was a failure. The whole atmosphere of interest and 
friendliness had changed. Lady Ellingsworth listened to his 
account of struggles with obstinate tenants, and still more 
obstinate prejudices, but she listened without eagerness, and 
rarely smiled even at his humorous descriptions of arguments 
used, and examples afforded. 

Meanwhile Kitty had flown up the broad staircase and rushed 
into her own room, and there lay prone on the bed, sobbing 
wildly and passionately in this first outbreak of grief. 

The shock and surprise of that discovery had filled her with 
shame and terror. She had never known how she valued that 
pure natural gift of song, rich and spontaneous as a bird’s 
carol, until she had heard that harsh, horrible note issue from 
her aching throat, and seen the dismayed and astonished faces 
of her listeners. 

Never again to charm their ears, never to hear praise and 
wonder, never to feel that power of moving or delighting 
others ; it seemed a cruel and most hard fate. She knew noWf 
as she had never known before, that the ease and grace and 
accomplishments which made Hermia so distinguished, as well 
as so admired, would never be hers. 

There are certain feminine graces which are purely natural. 
No teaching can bestow them. Manner is one, dignity is an- 
other. Neither of these was Kitty’s. 

Her old dislike of Lady Ellingsworth leaped into life once 
more. “ It is all her fault,” she cried wildly. 

All the fault of that hateful day when slumbering jealousy 
sprang into vivid existence and she had been made to feel her 
comparative unimportance in Laurence Moira’s sight. She 
would never have stayed out in the storm, never have run the 
risk of jicgident ^nd peril, if th^t meeting had not taken place. 


KITTY THE BAG, 


295 


Kitty was just in the most irrational and violent of all the 
moods of youth. She had wanted to stand well in one per; 
son’s eyes, and that had been prevented. She had gone down- 
stairs to-night longing to exercise the old charm of song, to 
see his face turn to her in that wondering glow of admiration 
and delight which thrilled her vain little heart to its core, and 
she found herself — voiceless ! What mattered her beauty now, 
undeniable as it was? What mattered her new gifts of for- 
tune? In this man’s eyes she felt they were of no account, 
for he knew her. 

Her history was common talk here. To him she would 
always be the village child, the nameless creature who had 
shared a murderer’s home, and been fed by the bread of 
charity ! 

All her young angry soul awoke in the fierce passion of that 
hour. The wrongs thrust upon her seemed to outweigh a thou- 
sandfold the benefits she had received. 

“ Oh, why was I ever born? ” she cried. Why did God 
make me to suffer like this — to be the wicked, rebellious, envi- 
ous thing I know lam? I seem to hate every one. There’s 
always something inside me at war with everything outside. 
And I feel as if I shall grow worse and worse. People will 
despise me and look down upon me, even if I am rich. Riches 
are not everything. They can’t make me a lady — a lady like 
she is — and now my voice, that, at least, would have won me 
notice — I feel it now that the power has gone. Oh ! life is 
hard, and God is cruel ! I wish I had died in that storm. He 
was kind to me that day. He was quite different to-night.” 

So she stormed and raged in the dark loneliness of her room. 
Her slender form was shaking with deep-breathed sobs, her 
hands were twisted in the soft coils of her hair. Life at that 
moment was only agony and anger. 

So Biddy found her as she entered the room, candle in 
hand, to tidy it for the night. 

Kitty — why, Kitty, darlin’ ! what in the livin’ wurld’s the 
matter, child? Why aren’t you downstairs in the company? 
Are ye ill, darlin’ ? Ah ! don’t be brakin’ your heart wid thim 
sobs, and not a fortnight out of bed this blessed day.” 

Kitty raised herself from the pillows, and threw herself into 
the tender arms of the oldest and most faithful friend she had 
ever known. 

Oh, Biddy, Biddy ! ” she cried despairingly, I’m so un- 
happy.” 


296 


KITTY TEE RAG, 


** Unhappy is it, mavourneen?” and the old woman held 
the slender figure more closely, and gazed down with yearning 
eyes at the hidden face. 

“What’s your grief, darlin’ ? What’s happened at all? 
They’ve not been spakin’ unkindly to you downstairs, have 
they ? ” 

“ Oh, I hate them all ! I hate Lady Ellingsworth, and that 
cold, clever friend of hers. I’m not like them. Nothing can 
make me like them. Oh ! I know it now, I know it now. And, 
oh ! my voice has gone, Biddy. I can never sing again. I 
tried to-night, and not a note will come out properly. I feel 
as if my heart was broken. I don’t care for anything. I 
don’t want to live. Oh ! Biddy, I wish I had died years ago 
when I was only a little child, running after you in the potato 
plot.” 

Her sobs broke out again, and Biddy’s tears began to fall in 
sympathy. “You’ll make yourself ill, Kitty darlin’,” she 
entreated, “ and ’tis only fresh heartache ye’re givin’ me wid 
your words, seein’ as ’twas meself saved you from death whin 
those to whom ye belonged were only willin’ it to ye. Ah, 
wisha, wisha ! Have I brought ye out of poverty and distress 
only to hear this? Shure, if yer voice is gone, darlin’, haven’t 
ye your face and your wealth left, and why would ye be wishin’ 
yerself dead and out of it at all, at all? Sufferin’, is it, ye 
are? Ah ! darlin’, ’tisn’t the outer manin’ av that word as 
ye’ve learnt yet. Could ye rayde my heart, and hear the tale 
of me sorrows, mavourneen, ye’d wonder ye made so much av 
your own.” 

Something in the simple pathos of those words went to the 
girl’s wayward heart. She ceased sobbing, and lifted her head 
and gazed with tearful eyes into the old, worn, wrinkled face 
that never in all the years she remembered had worn a harsh 
or unloving look for her. “ Has life been so hard for you, 
Biddy?” she said wonderingly. “1 have never heard you 
complain.” 

“ Complain, is it, darlin’ ? Shure, doesn’t the blessed Lord 
know what’s best for us? Not but what I’ve found it in me 
heart to say the hard wurd av Jim many a time. But there, 
poor sowl, we must lave him to God’s mercy now. Ah, Kitty, 
Kitty machree, the young don’t know what rale sorrow is. It’s 
whin the heart strings av a woman get twined round husband 
and child, and they bring grief and shame upon her head, that 
the thrue manin’ av it comes to her ; and that’s bin the way 


KITTY THE BAG. 


297 


wid me, darlin’, this many a year, and sorra a bit meself to 
blame for the bad luck av it. Ah, well, God’s will be done ! 
That’s what we’ve all to larn to say even whin the one breaks 
our heart that we loves nixt to God ! ” 

Kitty was silent. For the first time in her life her con- 
temptuous tolerant pity for the poor Balin’ Woman sank 
abashed and humbled before this patient courage, and this 
simple faith. All the miseries of that hard, cheerless life 
flashed before her. Its charity and kindliness had been pro- 
verbial. No beggar had ever left her door without some friendly 
aid, some kindly word ; nor friend nor foe had ever asked in 
vain for Biddy Maguire’s good will or gracious help. 

Kitty remembered this now, though in her hours of triumph 
and prosperity she had half despised what in reality she could 
not half comprehend. The gate of suffering often leads to the 
road of comprehension, and Kitty was learning the alphabet 
of life’s lesson at last. 

She ceased to sob ; she rose from the bed and pushed back 
the disordered hair from her brow. 

Sit down by the fire and talk to me Biddy,” she said as 
she wheeled a deep-padded easy chair forward and held her 
cold hands out to the blaze. ‘‘I am not going downstairs 
again ; I don’t want their pity.” 

“But what is it all, darlin’?” asked Biddy, “your voice 
was gone, you said — maybe ’tis only from weakness that is, 
and the bad cough ye had — ye’re forgettin, darlin’. Whin 
the warm days come, and yer strength comes back, shure ye’ll 
be all right again. Don’t be frettin’ about it, for indade tears 
nivir mended a throuble yet, though many’s the fine eyes 
spoiled by rayson of not rememberin’ that.” 

“Biddy,” said the girl suddenly, “ has Lady Ellingsworth 
said anything to you about our being here ? ” 

“She has, darlin’,” said the old woman, with a sudden 
tremor in her voice. “ And ’twill be a fine thing for you in- 
tirely, and the gran’ lady ye’ll be whin ye come back.” 

“ Will you be very lonely, Biddy? ” pursued the girl. 

“Lonely, is it, agra? Shure, haven’t I me trade to think 
of? It doesn’t lave much time for loneliness between Christ- 
mas Day and Christmas Eve.” 

“But, Biddy — I was thinking perhaps you would like to 
come with me,” suggested Kitty. 

“Ah, now, the Messin’s of heaven on the kind heart av ye, 
darlin’, but shure, crossin’ the says and associatin’ with 


298 


KITTY THE BAG, 


foreign nations, it’s more than I’d have the courage or the 
strength for. Besides” — and her eyes rested with new ten- 
derness on the fair young face by her side — besides, Kitty 
child, ye’re best lavin’ me out av your new life. There’s 
things not to me credit as will be spoken of — though it’s not 
my fault that disgrace has fallen upon me name. The heavens 
above give me stringth to bear it ! for, though poverty and 
hardship’s no stranger to me, darlin’, yet me good name was 
something, and it’s hard to forget that there was a time whin 
me people were well known and respected. Yes ; and had the 
fine bit av land, too. Ah, Mother of Heaven, give me patience 
that I may never turn me tongue on him that’s brought all the 
throuble upon me ! ” 

She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and Kitty 
could not but recognize the quickness and delicacy of feeling 
which had prompted such self-denial. She knew that dearly 
as Biddy might long to accompany her she would not do so 
since this stigma had fallen upon her ; since it would be in 
any one’s power to say that Lady Ellingsworth was accom- 
panied by the wife of her father’s murderer. 

<<But shure. I’m goin’ to kape up the good heart,” con- 
tinued Biddy presently. My hopes for you and my love for 
you will be like a blessin’ on me life, and the time will soon 
pass, darlin’, and then you’ll have your own, and be livin’ 
like a quane among us, and— — ” 

^‘No, no,” interrupted the girl passionately, ‘Mhatisjust 
where you are wrong, Biddy. I never can live here, at 
Knockrea, as anything else but what they’ve known me. 
That’s what’s in my heart, what I feel. The real gentry of 
the place will never treat me as an equal. Do you think I 
can’t feel that, even now, even here ? I am only on suffer- 
ance ; they just tolerate me, that is all. Ah ! Biddy, I am 
learning my mistake. I thought it was so easy to be a lady. 
But it’s not a matter of fine clothes, or servants to wait on 
you, or a grand house, or plenty of money. It’s something 
one — something money can’t buy ; you know yourself that I 
can never be like Lady Ellingsworth.” 

Ah ! ’twas always herself you took for a model, by com- 
parison,” said Biddy slowly; “and indade, darlin’, it’s not 
much av a difference I can see between ye.” 

“But, oh ! ” cried the girl passionately, “ the difference that 
I can Biddy ! ” 


KITTY THE RAG, 


299 


CHAPTER XLV. 

Some instinct of pity for the hurt young vanity of the girl 
she was compelled to befriend, made Hermia pause at her 
room door before retiring to rest that night. 

She knocked softly, and receiving no answer, opened the 
door and looked in. The fire was burning brightly, a shaded 
lamp stood on a small table by the bed. The slow regular 
breathing of its occupant showed that she was asleep. Her- 
mia stood beside her, noting with grave cold eyes the beauty 
of the long curling lashes, the shape of the sweet, red mouth, 
the flush on the delicate cheeks. 

That memory of some one whom the girl at chance mo- 
ments recalled, once again swept over her, and left her pained, 
perplexed, doubtful as it had always done. 

“ What will be her fate — what will she make of life ? " she 
thought ; and the memory of her own girlhood rushed back 
like a whirling torrent, and she saw amidst its wild waters the 
broken fragments of good and evil actions, the temptings, de- 
lusions, sorrows, suffering that had been her portion. 

Her face grew pale, her eyes filled. “ Who am I that I 
should judge, that I should be merciless?” she thought. 

This girl stands alone, friendless, on the threshold of woman- 
hood. The sin that brands her with shame is not hers. She 
may have to tread a harder path than my feet found. Why is 
it that I only feel resentment when I should be filled with com- 
passion ? Like me she is fatherless and motherless, for all we 
know. Her beauty may only be a snare. Life holds so many 
hours of bitterness even for a beautiful woman ” 

The girl stirred uneasily, as if the consciousness of another 
presence made itself felt even under the spell of slumber. 

Lady Ellingsworth remained quite motionless, watching her 
intently. Then, as softly as she had entered, she left the 
room and went to her own. She drew a chair up to the fire, 
and sat there for long, gazing into the dull red glow. 

The little timepiece above her chimed out twelve silvery 
peals. She started, and lifted her white face from the hand 
that had supported it. Her hopeless eyes looked at the dial, 
^nd she rose aptl rang for her maid with a sudden memory of 


300 


KITTY THE BAG, 


conventionalities. But the girl was dismissed as soon as her 
mistress’s hair had been brushed and arranged for the night, 
and again Hermia took that chair and resumed those melan- 
choly reflections which were becoming habitual. 

Life was gradually centring itself in memories, and losing 
its hold on active duties. Ghosts of dead youth, dead hopes, 
dead passion, came to her now in these midnight hours, and 
looked at her with those sad eyes of a glorified past that will 
always have the power to move a woman’s heart. 

Sleep rarely visited her now. She dreaded the long wake- 
ful hours when thought would grow acute, and no blessed rest 
would lay the calm hand of peace upon aching brain and tor- 
turing memory. 

At times like these the longing to hear that voice, to see that 
face which had once meant all the glory and all the shame of 
life, tore fiercely at her heart strings. 

Since that night in the ruins they had never met. Only at 
a distance had she seen the face she loved — the face that now 
was aglow with earnest sacrifice, in which the soul’s light 
burned with such strange glory. 

To-night the longing was like a living agony. It seemed to 
her more than she could bear. She sank down by the chair 
and bent her head on her folded arms, and cried aloud her 
misery and despair to Heaven. 

He had found peace — he had cast aside the dross of earthly 
things — but to her were left the turmoil and the fire. There 
were times when she felt that to embrace his faith — to give her- 
self up to the Church that had comforted and supported him 
— might after all prove her best safeguard. Oh ! to throw off 
this heavy burden — to know for even one brief hour the 
sweetness of peace ! 

**Oh! God pity me! I am so tired of sorrow,’* she 
sobbed, overcome by the pathos of her own grief. Oh I 
to blind thought — to cast it away, away into outer darkness, 
and dream oneself at last into forgetfulness I ” 

The fire grew dim. The shadows stole apace across the 
room and lost themselves in dark, untenanted spaces. 

This was their hour ; they were not wont to share it with 
any living thing. But still she knelt on, and still her heart 
cried out in voiceless prayer ; for grief, like love, takes no 
count of Time — and to both a day is as a thousand years, and 
a lifetime as a day ! 


nTTY TltJS HAG. 


SOI 

The mockery of sunlight calling the sleeping world to life, 
and marking the era of new duties and new responsibilities, 
broke over the dark jail where a condemned criminal had 
slept his last earthly sleep. Hope that to the last had lingered 
in buoyant hearts scornful of earthly justice, could linger 
there no longer. 

It had long left the breast of one sorrowful creature 
crouched beside the prison gates — and yet she lingered there 
to see that last and terrible signal float above the dreary walls 
she had learnt to know so well. All night she had sat there — 
turned away by compassionate authorities only to return again. 
The cold and dreary silence of the night had passed; mist and 
darkness had fled ; and the hope and glory, for ever quenched 
in a human heart, laughed in mockery of woe from the cloud- 
less blue above. 

The woman drew the hood of her cloak closer about her as 
if to shut out the sight of Nature’s loveliness. Only as 
the daylight brightened, did she lift her head and glance 
at the gathering crowd, watching with herself for that awful 
signal. 

No one spoke to her. An awed fear subdued all voices to a 
whisper, and gave to sorrow such as they might not share, the 
respect of silence. 

Moment after moment passed. Surely the time was at hand, 
and yet eyes sought in vain the signal. 

A stir and tumult took the place of the previous hushed ex- 
pectance. A hand touched softly the shoulder of the crouch- 
ing figure. 

Biddy,” said a voice, Biddy woman, shure there’s some- 
thing happening inside there. ’Tis a quarter past the time, and 
sorra a sign of a flag to be seen, bad cess to it.” 

A haggard face looked up at the speaker. ** What’s that 
ye’re afther sayin’, Moll Callaghan ? Shure, my wits is dazed 
intirely. Ah ! indade, ’tis kind of you to wish to be deludin’ 
me, but the hour’s past for that, woman dear. He’s looked 
his last on this side av Heaven. May the Blessed Mother have 
mercy on his sowl ! ” 

** But I tell you, woman, there’s bin no flag — no signal. 
Come, sthir yourself, and ring the bell, they’ll tell you if any- 
thing’s wrong wid the man ; or maybe ’tis pardoned he is 
afther all.” 

Pardoned!” At that wild improbability a wilder light 
leaped into Biddy Maguire’s eyes. She staggered feebly to her 

y 


302 


mTTY THE BAG. 


feet. Who says pardoned? Oh ! Holy Mary be praised, if 
it’s thrue. Pardoned ! Oh ! me heart’s like to break wid the 
joy av it.” 

She threw up her arms with a strange cry, and then sud- 
denly fell forward on the ground. A score of willing arms 
raised her. She was well known to many there ; and that 
curious celebrity attached to her as the wife of a lawfully 
condemned man, which appeals so strongly to the Irish lower 
orders. 

They took her into the nearest house, and did their best to 
restore her to consciousness. When at last she opened her 
eyes her thoughts seemed wandering. She talked in a weak, 
childish fashion of bygone things and people. She knew no 
one around her. A doctor was hastily summoned, and hear- 
ing of the anxiety, grief and exposure she had undergone, 
shook his head gravely over any prospect of recovery. 

They told him who she was, and learnt in return that the 
execution had not taken place that morning. A weighty and 
sufficient reason had postponed it, for a mightier than the 
earthly hangman had interfered with his office. Jim Maguire 
had been found dead in his cell when the jailer brought what 
was to be his last earthly breakfast. His constitution, long 
hopelessly impaired by drink and dissipation, had suddenly 
given way under the restrictions and terror of prison life, and 
the ultimate shock of his condemnation. 

But Biddy was unable to understand that she had been spared 
that last terrible disgrace. Her mind was quite gone. 

Toward night her voice seemed to clear a little. She looked 
anxiously round the room. Two familiar faces met that 
wondering gaze. They were those of the Swan, and the Red 
Hen. Biddy made a sign. 

Fetch me a praste, quick,” she entreated; **shure, my 
end is near. I feel it. Let me make my confesshun and die. 
Isn’t Jim waitin’ for me? I see him — so young and hand- 
some, just as whin he came coortin’ me — and Eugene, where’s 
Eugene? Where’s me boy? I can’t die aisy widout seein’ 
him. Oh ! for the love av Heaven bring him to me, and God 
will reward ye ! ” 

Johanna had hurried off at the first mention of the word 
** praste.” There is no more terrible idea to the Irish mind 
than that of dying without the “ hand of the clargy.” 

Johanna did not know much about Limerick. She and the 
Red Hen had come there to comfort Biddy in her hour of 


KITTY THE RAO. 


303 


need, so they said. In reality, however, they had been con- 
sumed with longing to be on the ground, and know all that 
took place from the hour of the black cap ” to that of the 
black flag. 

As she hurried through the streets Johanna called to mind 
that she had seen a chapel somewhere in the neighborhood, 
and there might be a priest to be found in its vicinity. It 
was past the hour of Benediction. There was a chance of 
meeting one. As she neared the building she saw a figure 
coming toward her, and knew that her surmise was correct. 

She rushed up to him without ceremony. 

** Good-day to your Reverence. 'Tis a praste I’m in search 
of. There’s a poor sowl in need of you, and cryin’ for the 
crucifix to be put upon her. Haste, your Reverence, there’s 
not a moment to lose. ’Twas dyin’ hard she was whin I 
hastened from the bedside, manin’ to bring the first of your 
honor’s persuasion that should chance to cross me path.” 

The priest looked at her. “ You are sure,” he said, the 
end is near? Have I time to return for ” 

“ Time, is it, your Reverence? Not a moment. ’Tis this 
way, down the next street. Shure, ’tis ashamed I am of me 
indacent expedition, but the inimy of sowls is always on the 
watch at the death hour, as well your Reverence knows.” 

They hastened on. The priest asked no particulars. He 
was used to these breathless summonses. To die without priest 
or prayer is an appalling thought even to the worst, or best 
Catholic. 

In ten minutes’ time they reached the house where Biddy 
had been carried, and Johanna ushered him into the room 
where she lay. 

Biddy was sinking rapidly. She had borne up bravely 
through the ordeal of the trial, through the terrible days inter- 
vening between the giving and the carrying out of the sentence, 
but at last Nature had sunk under the severe strain. 

She lay there — her eyes closed, her face ashen grey, her pale 
lips babbling of days long gone by, days of girlhood, marriage, 
motherhood — and then ever and again she would call on her 
boy’s name, beg him to come to her across the cruel seas. He 
had been gone so long. 

The priest stood by her side as if turned to stone. The 
dying woman’s face was not paler than his own. Mechanically 
he murmured the familiar words, and raised his hand to make 
the familiar sign. It sank powerless to his side. 


304 


KlfTt TH^ HAQ. 


“Eugene!” cried the feeble voice. “Will no one tell 
him? will no one bring him ? Eugene ! Eugene 1 ” 

The priest turned to the kneeling women. “Leave us,” 
he said hoarsely, “ I will hear her confession.” 

They obeyed immediately. He watched the door close, 
then dropped on his knees by the dying woman’s side. 
“Mother!/’ he whispered. “Mother, I am here. Don’t 
you know me? ” 

His voice seemed to pierce the mists fast gathering about 
those wondering senses. Her eyes opened. Fearfully, in- 
credulously, she gazed at the face so near her own. Then a 
great cry as of joy too terrible to bear burst from her pale lips. 
She started up, and her feeble arms sought to embrace the 
kneeling figure, but sank weakly to her side. 

“The good God above has heard my prayer,” she mur- 
mured. “It is Eugene’s voice ! ” 

“Yes,” said the priest, “I am indeed your son. Surely 
the hand of God has led me to your side in this hour of ex- 
tremity ! ” 

The dying woman fell back on her pillows. A great fear 
and a great awe were in her eyes as they rested on the bowed 
head by her side. 

“The hand of God!” she cried. “Oh! my son, I’m 
feared to tell ye ; is it the will of heaven that ye’re to hear 
my dyin’ confession?” 

“ Say all that is in your heart,” he said. “ Have no fear.” 

Her trembling fingers made the sign of the cross. 

“Eugene,” she said, “I’ve a saycret to lave behind me. 
I’ve carried it in my breast these many years. Listen.” She 
moved closer. Her feeble lips approached his ear. She 
whispered for a few moments. 

Suddenly he sprang to his feet, horror and incredulity on 
every line of his face. 

“ Mother,” he said hoarsely, “think of what you are say- 
ing. Are your wits wandering ? ” 

“No, my son,” she cried piteously. “Before heaven 
and you 'tis the truth I’ve spoken. ’Twas the hard man he 
was, and cruel, and nivir would release me from my oath. 
But Death sets us free from all such promises, and the 
burden’s gone at last. Oh ! the peace and joy av it ! ” 

Her whole face seemed illumined by some inward joy. 
She gazed at his pale countenance with eyes that seemed to see 
beyond and above all mere external things. 


KITTY THE RAG. 


305 


**Give me your blessin’, Eugene/’ she cried, “and let me 
die in peace. For my work’s done in the world, and my 
heart’s last wish is gratified. Eugene, aroon, vick machree^ 
wuil thu Ihuni ? wuil thu Ihum ^ * 

She had relapsed into the Irish tongue, and half mechanic- 
ally he answered in the same. 

“ Ish maheen a tha in a vair dhulish machree'' f 

The old familiar tongue stirred old familiar memories to 
life in both hearts. 

She smiled fondly in his face. Changed and sad and 
austere as it was, to her eyes it still seemed the face of her 
boy, the “ beloved son of her heart.” 

“Lay the blessed symbol on my breast, Eugene,” she 
sighed, “and bless me for the first and last time, as the 
servant of heaven ye are.” 

But he neither spoke nor moved, 

“Eugene!” she implored, “I’m dyin’. Give me your 
blessin’ and the absolution of my sins 1 ” 

A hoarse cry escaped his lips. He shrank back. “I 
cannot, mother I I cannot. 'Tis I who am guilty; ’tis I who 
need pardon.” 

“ The blessin’,” she cried again. “ The blessin’, Eugene. 
Let me die in peace.” 

Trembling he laid the little ebony crucifix he carried 
on her breast, and then gently crossed her hands. 

“Die in peace,” he murmured — “with God and with 
man, poor, trusting, honest soul, to whom life has meant 
but pain and sorrow of heart. Verily, you shall have your 
reward.” 

“Now kiss me, Eugene, my son, and call me * mother.’ 
Shure the blessed Christ won’t be begrudgin’ me carrying 
that word in my heart to the gates of Heaven itself ! ” 

He bent and his cold lips touched her colder brow. 

“Heaven’s blessing on you, mother,” he cried passion- 
ately. “ For you will be peace and glory evermore ; forme — 
the memory of guilt and wrong and shame, undying as 
hell’s torments.” 

He sank down once more, his head bowed on his folded 
arms in bitter self-abasement. 

The living and the dead held one dread hour of self- 

* My beloved, son of my heart, are you with me ? 
f I am with you, beloved mother of my heart. 

20 


306 


KITTY THE RAQ. 


communing. Silence profound and unbroken reigned in 
the room. 

Perchance the released spirit hovered pityingly over the 
earth-bound form, kneeling there in heart-broken misery, 
crying vainly to a pitiless fate for the boon bestowed on her — 
peace and rest. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


307 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

The priest left the house and took his way with agitated 
steps to his own residence. 

The night had fallen dark and chill, sleet and cold winds 
met him with unfriendly greeting in the almost deserted 
streets. 

Strength and self-will were once more assertive within 
him, the memory of that last hour was giving way to the 
demands on his future course of action which it had neces- 
sitated. 

The position he held in his order compelled him to ask 
for leave of absence on urgent private matters connected 
with his native place. He knew he must go at once — to- 
night — or it would be too late. If he caught the last train 
he would reach Knockrea in time to get a vehicle to take 
him to Mount Moira. For it was there he was bound. On 
the morrow Hermia would have left for Italy — left with that 
secret unknown — unguessed. 

His agitation and dismay were too apparent to be dis- 
regarded. His request was granted at once, and the 
train was soon bearing him in the direction of Knockrea. It 
was a long drive from the little wayside station to Mount 
Moira, and he had some difficulty in getting a vehicle. It 
was almost midnight when he reached the entrance gates. 
There he dismissed the car after liberal payment, and 
hastened up the avenue, marveling whether the household 
had yet retired for the night. 

As he approached he saw lights in an upper window, but 
the rest of the house was in darkness. He rung softly at 
the hall door. Some moments passed, but no notice was 
taken of the summons. Again he tried, and presently came 
the sound of bolts and chains, the door was opened slightly, 
and a voice demanded who was there. 

He knew the voice. It seemed to him that even were he 
dead, and lying forgotten in the cold earth’s breast, that voice 
would have power to recall him to life once more. 

“ Hermia ! ” he said softly, ‘‘ it is I— Eugene. I must see 
you at once. It is imperative.” 


308 


KITTY TBE RAG. 


She opened the door and stood there facing him. The 
candle she carried showed her his pale, tired face and 
trembling lips, and showed him too how changed and ill 
she looked. 

She was too startled to question him; as he entered she 
stepped back and led the way to the first room they reached. 
It was the library. 

She placed the candle on the table, and then turned to 
him. “ What is it — what has happened ? ” she faltered. 

He glanced round, then went over and closed the door. 

*<You need not fear that any one will hear us,” said 
Hermia. The servants have long gone to bed. It was 
because they could not hear your ring that I came down- 
stairs.” 

He noticed that she wore a loose gown of black serge, with 
a thick cord girdling it round the waist. It was almost nun- 
like in its severe simplicity. 

“You had better sit down,” he said. “What I have to 
tell you will take a long time.” 

She walked over to the big leather armchair by the 
nearly extinct fire, and seated herself. She almost fancied 
she was in a dream from which she must presently awaken. 

He stood before her, leaning one arm on the chimney- 
piece, his eyes averted from her white, changed face. 
“ Hermia,” he said abruptly, “ I have come to you to-night 
from the death-bed of my mother.” 

“Of Biddy?” She started and looked at him eagerly. 
“ Oh, don’t say she is dead — poor soul, poor, faithful, old 
creature ! Was it the shock of what happened to-day?” 

“Yes. My father was spared the shame of the gallows, 
but, nevertheless, the shock killed her. He was found 
dead in his cell this morning. I have not learnt the cause. 
I was unaware even that she was in Limerick. I was 
summoned to her bedside in my capacity of priest, and 
had to receive her last confession. Hermia, she told me 
a secret that she has kept all these years — the secret of the 
child she nursed and adopted.” 

“Kitty?” faltered Hermia breathlessly. 

“Kitty is her name. Had the secret been confided to me 
under seal of confession, it would not have been in my power 
to divulge it, but she told me as mother to son — as concerning 
myself, Hermia — and you.” 

The face before him could scarcely grow whiter than his 


KITTY THE BAG, 


309 


own. They looked at each other, and agonized fear met 
agonized assurance in that glance. 

“The child you bore did not die,'' he said. “Biddy re- 
ceived it from the woman who tended you. At first they had 
thought it dead, afterwards they knew its death was only too 
eagerly desired, and all your father heard was diat it had gone. 
Your life was almost despaired of. There was not a doctor in 
the wretched little hamlet. How you recovered seems a 
miracle. Chance had taken my mother there on one of her 
dealing expeditions, and she of course recognized your father. 
He bound her by an oath never to reveal the secret, save on 
her death-bed. He had his daughter’s honor to save. She 
thought only of her son’s career. My career ! ” — he broke 
off abruptly. “ As if the stamp of infamy can ever be erased, 
as if my guilty conscience had ever ceased to upbraid me with 
my sin ! “ 

He laughed harshly. “Well,” he said, “they settled it 
between them. I was despatched to America and put into a 
seminary, first in New York, then in Quebec. Years passed 
before I returned to Ireland. I was told it would be better to 
keep away from home, and I did so. A priest has no need of 
family ties. My parents never knew I had come back. You 
— you only discovered it, Hermia, and now, to-night, I am 
here to tell you this. Kitty ... is under your roof, is 
she not ? You must tell her the truth : that you are — her 
mother." 

Hermia sat there as if turned to stone. Kitty’s mother — 
she? and all this time she had believed it was her father’s 
child that she was befriending with cold patronage, receiving 
on sufferance under her roof, for his sake. 

A deathly chill seemed to creep over her — face and limbs 
lost all sensibility or power. It must be a dream — a night- 
mare of wild impossibilities — from that peal of the bell down 
to this present moment. 

He looked at her, and saw she had ’not yet fully realized 
what she had heard — what it entailed. 

“Hermia,” he said entreatingly, “don’t look like that. 
Speak, for God’s sake. Are you not glad that she lives, that 
the hand of fate has led her to you ? Will not her love con- 
sole you for all I have made you suffer ? ” 

Then she flung up her arms with a wild cry, and starting to 
her feet began to pace the room like one distraught. 

“Love!” she cried. ” Her love ! Why, she hates me, 


310 


KITTY THE BAG, 


No voice of nature has ever spoken from her heart to mine. 
We have been enemies — always. We are enemies still.” 

‘*But not when she knows, Hermia.” 

She stopped and looked at him with the eyes of one who 
hears her eternal condemnation. 

* ‘ When she knows / Have you thought of what that 
means ? — the story of my shame to be told by my own lips to 
my child . . . the story of her wrongs to come to her from 
the woman she has envied, and emulated, and disliked. Oh ! 
pity me, Eugene, pity me ! How can I do this thing? Oh ! 
if it wasn’t cowardly I should like to kill myself to-night. 
The thought of life’s misery makes death so sweet. And you 
— can you pray still, Eugene? Can you talk of God’s love 
and pity ? Pity ! — oh where has it found place in this love of 
ours? ” 

She wrung her hands. Her white face looked in agonized 
beseeching at his own. 

can talk of God’s justice,” he said solemnly. We 
sinned in His sight, Hermia. Every day and hour of our 
wrongdoing demands its penalty. Who are we that we 
should escape? ” 

There was a long silence. She stood leaning one hand 
against the table. Her eyes fastened on his face in dumb be- 
seeching. That piteous look cut him to the heart. All the 
manhood within him answered to its appeal — all the priest- 
hood rebuked it. 

Yet what could counsel and orthodoxy do here, to bind this 
broken heart, to restore this ruined life? To acknowledge 
her child now meant her own shame, her own ruin. To deny 
her was but to add further wrong to those already heaped upon 
an innocent head. 

He leant his head upon his folded arms as he stood against 
the carved oak mantel, and groaned aloud. 

The germ of joy has long been dead within my soul,” he 
said. But you, Hermia, you ! You have not deserved to 
suffer. From first to last I have been the offender, and yet I 
may not help you now in this your need.” 

Still she was silent. Still the turmoil and the anguish raging 
within could find in words no expression, or relief. 

The slow moments ticked on their passage into midnight. 
Solemnly the hour struck in the silence. 

He lifted his head and looked at her. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


311 


Then at last she spoke. ** To-morrow,” she said, ^‘itis 
already to-morrow, we were to leave here — to go abroad.” 

** Yes,” he said, “ I know. That is why I came here with- 
out an hour’s delay.” 

And you wish me to tell her this ? Have you thought of 
all it will mean? ” 

^*Yes,” he said. have thought of all. But so much 
wrong has been done I cannot counsel any more. It is right 
she should know.” 

“ Know that I am her mother — that you ” 

There came a sudden fierce cry ! The velvet portieres 
separating the library from another and smaller study into 
which it opened, were swept aside. 

Clutching them with one hand, her face ablaze with indig- 
nation, her eyes flashing scorn at the two figures cowering 
there in guilty silence, stood Kitty. 


312 


KITTY THE RAO. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

Involuntarily Hermia moved a step nearer to the priest. 
The girl stood in the same place, but the curtain had fallen ' 
from her hand and made a dull background for her white 
figure and the rich masses of her streaming hair. 

“Do not think I was listening purposely,” she said in a low 
constrained voice. “ I heard movements and voices, and I 
came downstairs thinking you might be ill. I waited a mo- 
ment there ... the door was open ... the curtain could 
not deaden your voices. I — I heard ” 

Hermia sank into the chair and covered her face with her 
hands. She could not bear the scorn of those flashing eyes — 
of that young indignant face. 

“ Is it true? ” continued Kitty, her lips quivering, the color 
rising and paling in her cheeks. 

The priest crossed his arms upon his breast. He stood mid- 
way between mother and child. All the shadowy memories, 
the strange likeness she had recalled each time he had seen 
her, rushed to his mind. He could only wonder now that he 
had not recognized her long since, for Hermia, as Hermia had 
been in her passionate wayward youth, confronted him once 
again, looked through his eyes to his guilty soul, and read his 
weakness and his shame. 

He felt like a ghost meeting a kindred shadow, and shrink- 
ing awe-struck from its presence. 

“You don’t speak,” continued the girl, glancing from one 
to the other. “ Are you afraid, or ashamed, because I have 
learnt your secret? . . . you the grand lady whose pride was 
a byword once, and you a priest of God who won souls to His 
service ! A fine secret indeed ! No wonder its knowledge 
was hidden so carefully. No wonder that I was thrust away, 
given to a beggar woman’s care and a beggar’s life, so that 
you might cheat the world, and you ” — she turned her flaming 
eyes on the priest’s ghastly face — “ might cheat heaven ! ” 

“Child, be silent,” cried Eugene sternly. “You speak, 
unknowing what you say. Your mother never knew of your 
existence, never learnt that you had survived your birth till — 
to-night.” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


313 


A burst of hysterical laughter escaped Kitty’s lips. 
likely story,” she said. “Do you think I shall believe it? A 
mother, and not know that she had a child, that it had life, 
and being ! I am not a good enough Catholic, father, to be- 
lieve in miracles. And, even if she did not know, what about 
yourself, may I ask? ” 

“I,” he bent his head, “I am the most miserable of sin- 
ners. Rightly am I punished in this terrible hour. Will you 
hear the story from my lips ? I would spare your mother that 
pain.” 

The girl looked at him — her breast heaving stormily. All 
that was worst and most rebellious in her nature was raging in 
her soul to-night. 

Her limbs trembled under her. She felt faint and sick with 
the horror and the shame that had thrust themselves upon her 
ignorant young life. 

She sank into a chair, and leaning her arms on the back, 
turned her face from his, and laid it on them. “ You can tell 
me what you please,” she said. 

Very quietly and patiently, with broken words, with tender 
exculpation of the heart-stricken woman who neither moved 
nor spoke, he told that sad familiar story of youth, of wild 
hot love, of discovery and separation. He told how he had 
been destined for the priesthood, and that his mother would 
have sacrificed everything in the world for that object. It had 
been no case of ruin or desertion. It had only been a fatal 
love rendered impossible of honorable consummation. An 
inexorable hand had thrust them apart. He had been con- 
signed to banishment. She to that hapless fate of womanhood 
she had recklessly challenged. Rapidly he sketched that pic- 
ture of misery and desolation, of parted lives, of the taking 
up of the threads of existence and weaving them into a new 
pattern, from which all but the memory of the old was elim- 
inated. Then with faltering tone he told of the truth learnt 
too late, of Philip Marsden’s stern purpose, of his refusal to 
permit, the disclosure to Hermia of her child’s existence, and 
his own grudging assistance in raising that child from obscur- 
ity and poverty at Biddy’s earnest solicitation. 

At that point the girl lifted her head and faced them again. 
“ So that is why he left Knockrea to me ! ” she cried. “ He 
at least has tried to atone for the wrong done by all concerned 
in my miserable existence ! ” 

Her face had grown hard and set. All the softness and 


314 


KITTY THE BAG, 


beauty of youth seemed to have left it. Rage and indignation 
at life’s injustice were all she felt. No pity for the humilia- 
tion of these poor sufferers. No comprehension of what ag- 
ony this scene must have brought to the proud beautiful woman 
against whose virtue no stone had yet been cast. 

The cruelty of youth is a savage and relentless cruelty, be- 
- cause youth alone seems to claim life’s fairest and sweetest 
promises for its own. For those who wrest such joy from its 
eager grasp, it has no pardon. 

Kitty stood in her own sight as the wronged and suffering 
victim of a selfish passion. What cause for thankfulness had 
she for the gift of life? In the past it had only meant misery, 
in the future it would only mean shame. How could she bring 
herself to give a daughter’s love and duty to these two sinners ? 
How treat as a mother the woman she had scarcely even re- 
garded as a friend ? 

Nature does not always speak to human hearts. A child’s 
love is a subtle thing built up of many memories and associa- 
tions. In none of these things had Kitty held any part with 
the woman who sat there, crushed under the burden of a vain 
remorse. 

Resentment alone fired her soul. What right had this 
mother of hers had to hold her head so high in man’s esteem 
— to enjoy the world’s homage and the world’s praise, while 
she, the child born of youth’s unthinking passion, had been 
condemned to hardship and contempt ? 

She rose suddenly from her seat, and at the movement Her- 
mia’s hands dropped, and she looked up. 

What a face ! what a wreck of former pride and beauty it 
was on which those pitiless young eyes rested. 

No longer had it the power to mask the inner tragedy of an- 
guish, passion and regret. Plain for all eyes to read, they 
looked out from those windows of despair to which her soul 
only lent the light of suffering. 

What will you do? what is to become of me? ” continued 
Kitty passionately. can claim your name, so much I 

know. Do you wish to keep your secret. Lady Ellingsworth, 
and you yours. Father Considine? I promise you I won’t be- 
tray either of you.” 

She laughed mockingly. They shuddered as they heard 
her. The sin that had been so sweet took its uttermost venge- 
ance upon them in that hour when they saw themselves de- 
spised, mocked, hated, by the child of that sin ! 


KITTY THE BAG. 


315 


They looked at her with sad hopelessness. It was useless to 
plead. Her heart as yet untouched by any love, unscathed 
by fire of passion, unknowing save by impersonal knowledge 
the power and madness and fidelity and strength of the one 
great tragedy of human life, could comprehend only the sin, 
but not its extenuating causes. 

They bent their heads to the storm and let her rave. Love 
she had none, duty they dared not claim. It is God’s will, 
... it is our due ! ” cried each tortured heart, and the beauty 
and the grace and the passion of this wayward thing, bound 
to them by the closest tie that nature knows, came as a fresh 
reproach as they listened to her upbraidings. 

** She is my child and she hates me,” thought the mother, 
and it seemed to her as if the cup of life’s suffering was full to 
the brim at last. 

The priest, on the other hand, was living through an experi- 
ence destined to mark the extent of his transgression with in- 
delible pain. His had been no sin of intent ; but as he 
watched the wavering line of its consequences, springing from 
youth’s heedlessness, culminating in manhood’s shame, he 
knew that in the hope of purchasing mercy by self-renuncia- 
tion he had forgotten that justice had a prior claim. 

^^Mea culpa^ mea culpaP" had long and often been his cry, 
while his conscience had been kept painfully alive by the 
throbbing of an unhealed wound. 

But his own suffering to-night was doubled by the conscious- 
ness of what Hermia endured. 

To hear the pitiless condemnation of the child for whom 
she had almost given her life : what fate more cruel for a 
mother ! 

In pity for her suffering he tried to stem the torrent of 
Kitty’s wild reproaches. 

<< Child, child!” he implored, *^you have said enough. 
Leave us now. It is our hour. We would be together.” 

Something in his voice quelled her wild rage and shamed 
her into silence. 

She looked at his white, sad face, ennobled by grief and 
suffering, and it seemed to her that she was treading upon un- 
known ground. Awe-struck she gazed, then moved sullenly 
away. 

will go to Biddy,” she cried wildly. *^She was right. 
She alone understood me. She alone loved me. She, in all 
the world, is the only one I can call friend I ” 


316 


KITTY THE BAG. 


The priest looked at her. You cannot go to Biddy now,” 
he said. “Did you not understand ? . . . the death-bed by 
which I prayed ... the dying lips whose secret gave me the 
clue to your history, they were ” 

“Not Biddy’s — oh, don’t say they were Biddy’s!” cried 
the girl in sudden terror. 

“ Yes,” he said. “ She has won her title to God’s grace at 
last. Few deserved it as she has deserved it.” 

For one moment Kitty stood there, battling with the shock 
of these new tidings. 

Then the tears gushed forth, and she covered her face with 
her hands. 

“Oh 1 I have no one,” she sobbed. “No one! ” and she 
rushed from the room. 


They turned and gazed at each other as the curtain fell. 

The little wavering circle of light thrown by the solitary 
candle made still more haggard their uplifted faces. 

“ The judgment of God is upon me,” he said. “ What use 
to struggle? Prayer and penance have availed nothing. Her- 
mia, it was decreed that our sin should take living shape and 
condemn us with living voice. What shall comfort us in this 
our hour of doom ? ” 

Then the womanhood within her stirred and woke from its 
long dream of coldness, and her own need of comfort led her 
to comfort him. 

“At least we know the worst, Eugene,” she said. “And 
knowing it can we not brace our energies to meet it ? ” 

“To meet it,” he said hoarsely. “Yes, that has to be 
done. How can I spare you, Hermia, how sweep from your 
path the shame that I brought you in exchange for your love? ” 

“ I do not ask to be spared,” she said. “ I would sooner 
face truth than live a lie. But, Eugene,” she rose and softly 
went to him and laid her hands in his, your vows are not 
irrevocable . . . your office need not claim you for ever ! No, 
don’t start ; hear me. If you had found peace or happiness 
or content I would have kept silence, but I know you have 
not. You have confessed as much. Why continue to suffer 
this spiritual torment, why bear this life of unnatural man- 
hood ? You have repented your sin sorely and deeply, and 
yet ” 

He clasped her hands and held them against his throbbing 


KITTY THE BAG. 


317 


heart. ** Ah, don’t tempt me, Hermia,” he cried wildly. 
**You give voice to the impious thoughts, the fierce desires 
that have thronged in my brain, and mocked me with van- 
ished bliss ! The garment of holiness is on me but the cover- 
ing of hypocrisy, for I know myself ^ and God knows me, and 
when I take His name upon my lips, or perform the offices of 
the Church, I am as one tormented by mocking fiends. And 
yet, to turn aside, to be a renegade! Hermia, Hermia, be 
strong for me I Be strong for our past love’s sake I I am as 
a leaf in the storm. I cannot think calmly to-night.” 

“ No, for you are a man still, Eugene,” she said. And 

so were men made, and so can you best serve God. This 
bitter bondage has claimed you long enough. Oh 1 come back 
to me., Eugene — to love and life 1 The world is wide, and to- 
gether we may find happiness once more. For I am tired of 
struggling against my misery. I am so lonely — so unhappy, 
Eugene.” 

Her head drooped and sank upon his breast, as the tearless 
agony of his eyes looked up to heaven. 

** And so am I, God knows,” he said. “ Yet, Hermia, this 
cannot be. Wretched sinner that I am, why should I link my 
life with yours ? That would not undo past wrong ... it 
would but add to it 1 ” 

No, no,” she cried between her stifling sobs. For 
shared with you my burden would grow light, and in the 
world, Eugene, there is work for all. The priest’s garb is not 
always necessary for the priest’s service. You can work for 
men’s souls still, and I will help you. We will leave this land 
and its sad memories behind us, and begin life anew, side by 
side as once we dreamt.” 

His gaze, tender and sorrowful, rested on her bowed head. 

• The arms that held her trembled with the sweetness of new 
hope. 

It was only a dream,” he said. Only a dream.” 

**A dream that years of misery and separation have not 
killed out of my memory, Eugene. What of yours? Oh 1 
listen, listen. Exchange this false unnatural life ! Can any 
future hold worse trials than these past years ? And I have 
no strength any longer. Eugene, I want you \ ... I want 
you! ” 

Into his eyes there stole a fearful joy. All the sweetness 
and promise of life came back to him in the tempting of her 
words. 


318 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Why should he not yield ? he asked himself. 

The vows that bound him had bound others who had broken 
them for conscience’ sake, or at the bidding of worldly wisdom, 
or ambition. 

He might do the same. He might claim release. The 
work of the Church could be performed in secular as well as 
priestly garb. Was it not well said that man looketh at the 
outward appearance, but God at the heart ” ? 

The rules and restrictions of his order had often proved 
irksome to him in his labors. The narrow lines laid down had 
been often hard to tread. 

And in this hour he knew, if he had never known before, 
that he had never successfully crushed out the human instincts 
within him. The sweetness of love, the possibility of reunion, 
flashed before his dazzled sight and filled his brain with long- 
banished fancies. 

All of love, all of womanhood were for him centred in this 
sorrowful, clinging creature, whom he had wronged so deeply, 
but who seemed to him now as an angel beckoning to paths of 
happiness, speaking only forgiveness and hope. 

Frightened at his long silence, Hermia lifted her head and 
looked at him. The tears were wet upon her cheeks, her eyes 
gazed into his with such beseeching as never had he seen in 
woman’s eyes before. And then suddenly, without warning, 
the feeble light wavered and died out. They stood alone in 
the shrouding darkness, which only the dull and dying fire- 
light shared. 

Alone and in the silence they heard but the beating of their 
own hearts — felt, yet saw not, the quiver of the lips that half 
unconscious of the impulse turned and met and closed each on 
each in a passion of yearning tenderness that would not be 
denied. 


ZITTY THE EAG. 


319 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

Alone, and half distraught with misery and shame, Kitty 
paced to and fro her room. 

All the preparations for the morrow’s departure were scat- 
tered about. What a mockery they seemed now ! 

How could she give herself up to that companionship — how 
associate as of old with one claiming her by this new tie? It 
seemed hateful and impossible. Yet she was her lawful guard- 
ian ; all she owned and possessed came through her. 

I will not live with her,” she told herself again and again. 
** I hate her, I despise her ! She is a living lie, a whited 
sepulchre. I cannot feel she is my mother. I cannot call her 
by that name. I will not acknowledge her right ! ” Then 
her tears rolled forth again. Oh Biddy, Biddy!” she 
cried, ‘‘why have you left me too, now when I need you 
most ! now when I can value that patient, honest love of 
yours 1 ” 

Choking sobs rose in her throat. She threw herself on the 
bed in a convulsion of grief. 

Granted wishes had indeed proved a curse to her. 

She had craved for wealth and position. Both were at her 
feet. She had longed to exchange the humble cabin for a 
lady’s life. She had known no rest to that consuming curios- 
ity to learn the secret of her birth. She had desired a name, 
and the name she could claim would, if needful, cover her 
mother’s shame effectually, for Kitty Marsden might well pass 
as the child of her benefactor. All this she remembered, and 
every remembrance was but a new stab of pain to her vain 
and wilful heart. 

The selfishness that had characterized her life seemed in no 
way the better of this fiery ordeal. It was always of herself 
she thought. Her suffering, her shame seemed preeminent ; 
they allowed no room for pity for others, no allowance for 
temptation, no compassion for sin. The “ first stone ” was at 
her hand, and she flung it with merciless aim. Understanding 
nothing of what she condemned, she was also incapable of ex- 
tenuating it. 


320 


KITTY THE RAG. 


The fire had long died out. The room was chill and cold. 
She shivered as she lay there, clad only in the thin dressing- 
gown she had thrown round her before that hurried exit. 

A sense of personal discomfort at last took the place of per- 
sonal misery. She rose and crept back to bed and lay there 
shivering and wretched, unable to sleep, and tortured by 
thoughts that were only the keynotes to a life of disillusion. 

She had taken no count of time. It seemed as if years had 
passed since that strange ring had wakened her, and half fear- 
ful, half curious, she had stolen down the stairs to learn its 
meaning. 

Suddenly she was conscious of a light shining through her 
closed and swollen lids. She started up, and saw Hermia 
standing beside the bed holding a small lamp in her hand. 

Kitty," she said, I could not rest, I could not sleep till 
I had come to some understanding with you. Will you listen 
to me for a few moments? ’’ 

The girl sat up and pushed back her falling hair. 

“ Of course I will listen," she said coldly. Perhaps you 
had better put down that light. It hurts my eyes." 

Hermia placed the lamp on the dressing-table, and seated 
herself by the bed. 

There is no need to go over the old ground," she said. 

You know my secret, and your history. You said you did 
not believe in my ignorance. But it is true, Kitty. As God 
hears me / never knew you were alive. They told me you 
died soon after you were born, and I believed it till — to-night. 
My father was a cold stern man. He never forgave my sin 
and my disgrace, though he shielded me effectually from ex- 
posure. I left Ireland almost immediately. I never returned 
until I was married to Lord Ellingsworth." 

The memory of that summer evening when she had leant 
over the cottage gate and watched the carriage bearing the 
‘^beautiful lady " to Knockrea House, flashed back to Kitty’s 
mind. 

How scornful had been the glance that swept over the rag- 
ged child, and how that child had envied the woman. Yet 
now by fate’s strange workmanship the positions were reversed. 
The woman it was who, shamed and humbled, pleaded for the 
child’s pity, the child who had grown to womanhood, and was 
now accuser and judge of a guilty mother. 

**My father," continued Lady Ellingsworth, must have 
, learnt of your existence from Biddy. For that reason he had 


KITTY TBE BAG. 


321 


you rescued from your obscure position and educated. I can- 
not understand why he never told me — why he left' you his 
heiress without explanation of the reason. But I am glad he 
did you so much justice. I am glad that one day you will 
reign in honor in my old home. . . . And now, Kitty, for 
what I have come to say to you. We cannot carry out the ar- 
rangements for to-morrow. Feeling as you do — as you ex- 
pressed yourself — I could not expect you either to accept a 
false position, or force me to acknowledge the true one. This 
is no matter in which to take impulse as our guide. We must 
weigh well the consequences of our actions before committing 
them. The law gives to a child, born under your unhappy 
circumstances, only its mother’s name. In that name Biddy 
affirmed she had registered your birth. You may call yourself 
Miss Marsden of Knockrea if you choose, and give, or with- 
hold, the explanation. It is not for my own sake that I ask 
you to consider the matter carefully before you make your 
choice. There is no use in exposing to the world our private 
histories. My father’s one desire was to keep my secret, and 
it has been done so successfully that even I guessed nothing of 
it. Do not fancy, however, that 1 am going to shirk my duty 
to you. I leave the matter in your hands now. My home 
shall be yours, even as my name is. I will shield you and 
protect you to the best of my power, but I must tell you that I 
intend to leave Ireland ; it is unlikely I shall ever return. Of 
course there is no reason why you should not establish your- 
self at Knockrea. But I cannot live with you there. I can 
never live there again. This is as much as is needful to tell 
you to-night. Now try to sleep, and if possible pray for gent- 
ler thoughts. You have been wronged. ... I do not deny 
it, but the wrong was never an intentional one, and all that I 
\ can do to rectify it shall be done.” 

She rose as she ceased speaking, and for a moment stood 
there looking with sad beseeching eyes at the girl’s cold face, 
so strangely like and yet unlike her own. 

In her heart she could not blame this critical attitude — this 
absence of affection. Love does not spring up ready made at 
the call of duty. A child cannot love the author of its being 
simply because the accident of a human union has clothed a 
human soul with an undesired and unasked personality. 

Kitty, to herself, stood quite outside the pale of the Fifth 
Commandment. She looked on this parentage of hers as an 
added wrong to her many self-inflicted sufferings. If she felt 
21 


322 


KITTY THE BAG. 


anything at all in her present condition of mind, it was an un- 
holy triumph in the humiliation of a woman she had always 
secretly envied, and vainly emulated. 

“You don't speak,” said Hermia sadly. “ You cannot find 
it in your heart to say, ‘ Mother, I forgive you ’ ? ” 

“No,” cried Kitty stormily, “I cannot ! I am no hypo- 
crite; I can’t pretend what I don’t feel. Whatever of blame 
lies in this matter rests with you — and you alone. I don’t even 
feel sorry for you. I ought to, no doubt, but I don’t ! You 
must have known what you were doing. ... You could not 
have given yourself up body and soul for the mere sake of 
love, without some thought of consequences. I am only a girl, 
and ignorant and foolish, but at least something within me 
tells me that.” 

She turned and hid her face in the pillows, ashamed of the 
sobs that once again burst forth. “Oh, go, go ! ” she cried 
stormily. “ I am ill and tired and wretched ; I want to be 
alone.” 

Hermia moved silently away. 

“It is my punishment,” she said in her heart. “What 
right had I to expect anything but condemnation at her 
hands? ” 

Like a ghost she went across the carpeted landing to her own 
room. The grey dawn was gleaming chill and pale through 
the window. Her face looked haggard and drawn in the 
dreary light. Her soul’s agony confronted her as she met her 
own reflection in the mirror. 

The scales dropped from her eyes. She saw her sin, not as 
the unthinking, heedless impulse it had been, but as the guilt 
of woman against all womanhood. 

To give life to another, to condemn to suffering and igno- 
miny a soul that but for selfish forgetfulness might have known 
no conscious existence — that was what women did, as wick- 
edly, as heedlessly as a child that sends a sportive feather 
down the winds of chance. 

Love is a divine good as well as a divine gift, but love made 
the slave of passion falls from its high estate and becomes a 
thing of shame and terror and crime. Hopelessly, helplessly 
she read this truth at last, and falling on her knees in the 
dreary dawn she cried to heaven for comfort. 

The child of her love and her sin had turned a deaf ear to 
her entreaties — would God be equally pitiless ? 

Amidst the wild tumult of her thoughts it seemed to her 


kITTY THE BAG. 


323 


that suddenly a voice spoke. Like the words of an accusing 
angel she heard once more the words of her own selfish en- 
treaties seeking to recall to herself what had been vowed to 
heaven. 

She lifted her face and shuddering looked around. The 
memory of that scene rushed back to her. She saw once more 
the anguished eyes — she heard once more the arguments that 
tried to combat her entreaties. 

Again she felt the terrible sweetness of that close embrace 
— the strange unholy joy that spoke of spirit conquered by the 
flesh. She had recalled him to herself, had claimed from the 
service of heaven what would henceforth mean the service of 
love. And yet now the sense of triumph brought no delight. 
It seemed as if she were but adding shame to shame. 

Again that voice, piercing as a two-edged sword, clove dark- 
ness. It was at her ear. 

‘ ^ Shalt thou escape the penalty of the broken vow / " it 
seemed to say ; ‘ ‘ and to thy unrepented sin add yet another ? 
Mock not heaven nor God with wild beseeching. They heed 
not prayers such as thine / ’ ’ 

Slowly, fearfully she staggered to her feet. Her haggard 
eyes looked once again at their own likeness and read their 
terror and her doom. 

“ It may not be ... it cannot be. Not thus is sin atoned 
for ! " cried her stricken soul. ‘‘Lost joys may not be re- 
captured, and guilty love may not re-live its passionate de- 
lights. In tempting back that other soul, a new wrong has 
been committed. Not thus is peace with heaven to be made 
— forgiveness on earth to be won ! ” 

Then as if impelled by an invisible power she sank once 
more upon her knees, and from her eyes the tears gushed forth 
like rain. 

“It is just ... it is right! ” she cried. “ What am I 
that I should stand between a man’s soul and his God ? Ah I 
no ! no ! I give him back to heaven. . . . There, at last, may 
be reunion, pure and eternal as once we dreamt of here. So 
may our sin be atoned for — so may forgiveness be ours at 
last!” 

Her head sank lower and with strange heaviness upon her 
folded arms, and softly, like a cloud, came a blessed uncon- 
sciousness of misery and pain and all the woes of earth. 


324 


KITTY THE MAO, 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

Laurence Moira drove over to the house at noon that day. 
He learnt to his surprise that the departure of Lady Ellings- 
worth and Kitty had been postponed, and that the former was 
seriously ill. Hearing also that Mrs. Montressor had been 
hastily summoned he sent a message to that lady asking her to 
see him for a moment. 

She came to him after a short delay looking very grave and 
anxious. ** I cannot tell what has happened,” she said. 

Lady Ellingsworth’s maid found her lying unconscious on 
the floor of her room when she went there at seven o’clock 
this morning. She was still dressed as when she had left her. 
The doctor says she must have been in that state for hours. 
We thought she would never revive, and now she only lies 
there like one who has had some awful shock. She never 
speaks, and her eyes have a strange blank look as if her mind had 
gone. Kitty, too, is ill. She is in bed with a feverish cold. 
It is altogether most mysterious. They were both quite well 
when I parted from them last night. What can have hap- 
pened ? ” 

Have you questioned the servants?” asked the young 
man anxiously. 

*^Yes, but they know nothing. The footman fancied he 
heard a ring at the front bell about midnight, but not hearing 
it repeated thought he was mistaken, and went to sleep again. 
You know what Irish servants are.” 

Indeed I do. But there seems some mystery here. Did 
no one else hear the ring? ” 

The servants say not — Kitty won’t speak at all. She 
looks awfully ill also.” 

What ought I to do under the circumstances ? ” asked the 
young man uneasily. I came here to stay, you know. My 
things were all sent over yesterday.” 

Then stay by all means,” said Judith Montressor. ** Your 
room is ready I know, and the house is certainly large enough 
for all, even if we have to engage a trained nurse, as Dr. Car- 
rick thinks probable. He fenrs brain fever.” 


KITTY THE BAG. 


325 


Laurence Moira looked terribly distressed. It was all so 
sudden and unexpected. Certainly Lady Ellingsworth had 
looked very ill and changed of late, but he had attributed that 
to grief at her father’s death, and all the circumstances follow- 
ing. He had never dreamt of anything serious underlying 
that change. 

Mrs. Montressor excused herself from any further conver- 
sation, and left him to himself. 

The house was to be kept very quiet by the doctor’s orders, 
and throughout the day he absented himself, so as to make no 
demands on the servants. Toward evening he returned. 
The report was still unfavorable. Lady Ellingsworth could 
scarcely be called conscious. Neither could she be induced 
to take any nourishment whatever. 

Kitty, however, seemed better, though she refused to leave 
her room. According to Judith Montressor, she had expressed 
neither concern nor surprise at Lady Ellingsworth’s strange 
seizure. She heard of it with perfect indifference. 

don’t know what to make of the girl,” continued Ju- 
dith. She is a puzzle to me. Any one colder or more un- 
grateful it has never been my lot to meet.” 

Laurence looked somewhat uncomfortable. It had never 
occurred to him that Kitty was cold — her powers of gratitude 
were of course another matter. 

**I am going to stay here to-night,” continued Judith Mon- 
tressor. “Lady Ellingsworth is in too critical a state to be 
left to the mercies of servants; and the nurse cannot be here 
till to-morrow.” 

“ Is it really so serious? ” exclaimed the young man. 

“I should say it was as serious as it well could be,” an- 
swered Judith gravely. 

And she was right. For days Hermia lay in that state, the 
feeble pulse of life growing daily more feeble. 

Existence seemed to have narrowed itself into a mere 
shadowy consciousness, and people passed before her as 
phantoms in a dream. Yet in the centre of her being throbbed 
a poignant suffering, from which she cowered and shrank 
in recurrent terror. For her, life was at an end. Her pride 
was broken — love, hope, peace were alike denied her. She 
had reached a height of sorrow where her soul sat alone, 
throned in melancholy isolation, feeling itself an alien from 
all that had been, or might be. To others it seemed that her 
brain was dulled, and all the active sources of life enfeebled. 


326 


KITTF THE BAG. 


but sometimes as her eyes turned to Judith’s watchful face, 
they betrayed such agony of mind that she turned faint and 
sick with apprehension. What was the mystery they held — 
what fever of memory burned in their sad depths? 

Kitty had recovered and came downstairs as of old, and the 
old routine of the household ran its accustomed course. But 
she too was changed. Sullen, absorbed, listless, she moved 
about the familiar rooms, interested in nothing, heeding noth- 
ing. 

All Laurence Moira’s efforts met with a chill response ; she 
seemed absorbed by some hidden sorrow, whose nature she 
would not betray. 

To their surprise she insisted on going to Biddy Maguire’s 
funeral. Her body had been brought from Limerick to her 
own old cottage, and her friends and neighbors had waked ” 
it in grand style. Partly in sympathy with Kitty, and partly 
for the sake of his own interest in the Balin’ Woman’s char- 
acter and life, young Moira also attended the mournful cere- 
mony. It was the proud boast of the neighborhood that such 
a ** bury in’ ” had not been known for years. All the same it 
had been a thing of horror to Kitty. 

She went through it sternly — unmovedly so it seemed — but 
her heart shed tears of blood ; and there was a moment when 
she was conscious of but one mad longing — to throw herself 
into the ground that held her first and only friend, and bid 
them pile the earth upon her own ungrateful head, and bury 
her there beside her. 

That night as she sat alone brooding in melancholy misery 
by the library fire, Laurence Moira entered and took the seat 
beside her. 

Kitty,” he said gently, using the name by which he al- 
ways thought of her, ‘^surely you have grieved enough. 
There is so much sorrow hanging over the house, why need 
you add to it? ” 

She looked at him surprised and startled. Is she worse? ” 
she asked hurriedly. 

“ I fear so. At least her state is so critical that Dr. Carrick 
has telegraphed to Dublin for other advice. Kitty, have you 
thought what you will do . . . if— if our fears were realized? ” 
No,” she said coldly, I don’t see that it would concern 
me very much ; Mr. Marsden has taken all necessary precau- 
tions, I believe.” 

The coldness and heartlessness of the words struck painfully 


KITTY THE BAG. 


327 


on the young man’s ears. ‘^You don’t seem very grateful,” 
he said, “ for all Lady Ellingsworth’s goodness to you.” 

The color flamed into her cheek. “lam quite as grateful,” 
she said, “as she is good. You don’t know her history, Mr. 
Moira ... I do.” 

He started. “What do you mean?” he said. “Her his- 
tory has only meant that she is a beautiful and accomplished 
woman, who has not grudged time, or talent, or energy in the 
service of the poor and unfortunate.” 

Her eyes blazed. She turned on him with sudden fury. 
For once passion escaped her control, and she let fall words 
that shocked and terrified her listener. 

“ That is your pure and virtuous piece of womanhood ! ” 
she concluded. “A woman who has lied to the world every 
day she has lived in it — who holds a secret that ” 

She paused — frightened by the look in his face. 

He rose from his seat and stood before her, tall and erect, 
pain and condemnation speaking in every line of his face. 

“It is not considered polite,” he said, “ to doubt a lady’s 
word — but ” 

Her contemptuous laugh cut across his words like whipcord. 

“You know,” she said, “I am not a lady; you need not 
be afraid of hurting my feelings. I am well used to dis- 
courtesy.” 

He walked slowly up and down the room trying hard to curb 
his own anger — to keep down his just indignation. 

He stopped before her at last. “ Kitty,” he said, “ do you 
know you are heaping up misery for yourself by your unhappy 
temper? You look at the worst side of life in everything. 
You place yourself and your own feelings before every other 
consideration. Oh ! you may rage at me as you please. I am 
not afraid of hard words, and a girl’s anger won’t frighten me. 
But I think you need a little plain speaking, and I am going 
to give it you.” 

She was so astonished that she could say nothing. 

“In the first place,” he said, “you ungrateful. You 
had no claim on Mr. Marsden, yet think of all he did for you. 
You had less on Lady Ellingsworth, yet she was ready to serve 
you in any way. You stand between her and her lawful rights 
— you have usurped her place, and won her home away from 
her, and she has never complained. I, from a dispassionate 
standpoint, can only see her as the benefactress, you as the un- 
gracious recipient of her goodness and thoughtfulness,” 


328 


KITTY THE BAG. 


**Have you any more to say?” asked Kitty scornfully as 
he paused. 

** Yes,” he said, ** I have. I am inclined to be plain-spoken, 
you know, and I don’t understand much about women. I 
confess, however, that I have never met with one who so thor- 
oughly conveyed my ideal of feminine perfection as Lady 
Ellingsworth. To know her is at once a privilege and an 
honor. I simply cannot and will not endure to hear her 
spoken of as you spoke just now.” 

These words roused all Kitty’s worst feelings. For one 
instant she tried to keep back the burning torrent of her 
righteous indignation. For one moment she stood before this 
audacious speaker, her hands clasped on her heaving bosom, 
the red blood flaming to her brow, then she flung prudence to 
the winds. 

Before you condemn me,” she said, “ you had better hear 
my side of the case. You think you know her — you are mis- 
taken. You think you know me — you do nothing of the sort. 
Ungrateful you have called me ! What call have I to be grate- 
ful to one who gave me life only to forsake me . . . who by 
the mere accident of chance raised me from the gutter to which 
I had been consigned ! who has stood before the world as the 
pure immaculate piece of womanhood you and all men believe 
her, and all the time has been a living lie ! . . . No, don’t 
stay me. I tell you I will speak ! She cheated her husband 
— she cheated the world — but she has not cheated me. I owe 
her no duty. I can force from my heart no love. Now, do 
you know who she is? this feminine ideal, this cold and flaw- 
less statue ... or must I put her shame into words, and 
couple with it mine? for I am her child — hers — and Philip 
Marsden knew it ! ” 

The wild torrent of words ceased at last. Laurence Moira 
stood before the enraged girl, white and. utterly confounded. 

He had no reason to doubt that she spoke the truth, but 
that truth was so appalling, so utterly incredible that he felt 
powerless to speak either dismay or unbelief. 

You . . . her child?” he faltered at last. 

She looked at him defiantly; her dying wrath took fire 
again at his tone more than his words. 

*‘Yes,” she said. *‘She has confessed it to me herself. 
What have you to say now ? ” 

He looked at her, lovely — stormy, petulant, unforgiving. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


329 


He had a great deal to say, but he felt this was neither the 
time nor the place to say it. 

‘‘I pity you both,” he answered slowly, but I think I pity 
her the most.” 

And he turned and left the girl standing there mute and 
abashed, her anger extinguished by tears of mingled remorse 
and regret. 


330 


KITTY THE BAG, 


CHAPTER L. 

Laurence Moira closed the library door and went out into 
the grounds. 

The impulse was purely mechanical. He scarcely knew he 
was in the open air, until the cold wind, blowing upon his un- 
covered head, roused him to the sense of material things. 

Then he looked up at the clear dark sky, lit here and there 
by groups of stars. A miserable conviction of the hopeless- 
ness and sinfulness of life came to him at that moment. 
Hitherto he had taken it very much as he found it, neither ex- 
pecting too much nor rebelling at too little. His temperament 
was buoyant and not sensitive. He looked for the best in 
every one, and convinced himself that he had found it. Some 
inner fund of poetry and romance that lives in all Irish nature 
led him specially to idealize womanhood. He had carried that 
ideal unsmirched and unspotted in his heart, despite much 
rough handling and sundry disillusions, impossible to avert 
from a man’s life. But the full and gracious presentment of 
that ideal had only met him in the person of Lady Ellings- 
worth. There was in his feeling for her the chivalry of knights 
of old, the reverence of devotee to saint — of subject to sovereign. 
No element of personal passion mingled with these feelings. 
She seemed to him set far apart from such feverish insanities as 
mark the Court of Love ; and now to picture her fallen from 
her high estate — humbled in his sight and in the sight of 
others ! The thought struck him like a blow, and roused in 
his mind something of the same intolerant ferocity that a blow 
would have called to life. 

Kitty’s mother! . . . Kitty’s mother!” The words re- 
peated themselves again and again. He remembered now the 
curious physical likeness he had noted between the girl and the 
woman, the little subtle peculiarities impossible to describe but 
now confirming this hateful story he had heard with confir- 
mation strong as Holy Writ.” 

How mercilessly the girl had flung this confession at his feet ! 
How vividly she had painted her own shame, in portraying 
another’s! > f r 6 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


331 


All her pent-up indignation at the mystery which had 
shrouded her life, all her resentful jealousy of this beautiful 
woman, all the sorrows she had endured, the ambitions she 
had known, the humiliation she had borne had flamed forth in 
those burning words, had shown him the girl in a new light, . 
as a martyr suffering for the wrongdoing of others, bearing the 
cross of shame while they wore the crown of honor. Yet he 
knew he would have given worlds that she had not told him 
this, that she had kept silence and shielded the name which 
ought to have been sacred in her sight. 

He had old-fashioned ideas of duty and self-respect. 
Nothing had ever hurt him so much as that passionate declara- 
tion : owe her no duty — I can force from my heart no 

love.” 

He knew she spoke the truth. No love could spring from 
the knowledge of such wrong as Kitty had endured. It was 
the one wrong to which most women are merciless, especially 
the young and ignorant, who have not even learnt Love’s 
alphabet, leave alone his tasks of passion and penitence and 
pain ! 

As he paced to and fro under the leafless trees a sudden 
thought flashed before Moira. It was just the sort of Quixotic 
chivalrous thought to which that inner romance lent itself. 
Why should he not throw himself into the breach between 
mother and daughter ? Shield the one and save the other from 
that fiery ordeal of the world’s scorn and the world’s mockery 
which might at any moment be thrust upon their lives. 

He could give Kitty his name and protection — a name loved 
and honored for generations past. As his wife she would have 
nothing to fear. As his wife he could compel her to keep her 
mother’s secret. 

To all curiosity on the subject he could give the baffling 
reply: ‘*I am satisfied as to who my wife is. I know her 
history — and I have married her.” 

There would be no more said. Besides, scandals are soon 
lived down where one’s life is irreproachable. And Kitty 
would be mistress of Knockrea, even as one day he might be 
master of Mount Moira. 

The blood flushed warmly to his face. His tendency to 
look on the best side of things reasserted itself, and turned 
aside the bitterness of his past mood. 

It all seemed so easy, so simple. It only depended on 
Kitty. 


332 


KITTY THE BAG, 


He wondered if she cared for him. He tried to recall all 
the little incidents of their acquaintanceship, he remembered 
her petulance, her waywardness, the softness of her eyes or 
voice as she had listened to, or addressed him. Surely it 
would not be difficult to win her heart, untutored as it was, 
and racked now with sorrow and shame. 

In some things Laurence Moira was still very boyish despite 
his twenty-six years. There were still tracts in his nature of 
uncultivated land, and it was one of these tracts that he now 
discovered, and set out to dig and plough with all the hot 
ardor of youth. 

Had he seen Kitty at that moment he would have flung 
himself at her feet and made his proposal without a moment’s 
delay. 

Perhaps it was fortunate he did not encounter her — for life 
does not always provide such opportune meetings or meeting- 
ground as the stage — and in all probability she would have re- 
jected him and his offer at once. 

He therefore went back to the house, and consoled himself 
with a cigar and his own reflections until bedtime. 


It was not until he had returned to Limerick and found him- 
self among his old associations that the full consciousness of 
what he had done and what he had promised burst upon the 
mind of Eugene Maguire. 

He knew that his first duty was to go to the bishop and re- 
port what had happened, and state his reasons for wishing to 
resign the office of a priest, but a sudden reluctance held him 
bacL He felt that strange shame of having fallen from his 
high estate” that marks the history of would-be saints. 

It was terrible to think that fortitude and self-reliance had 
been but as wisps of straw in the fire of a woman’s tempting. 
Here was no spiritual conflict — no combating of theological 
doctrines — no scruples of conscience — simply the bold naked 
truth to be confessed. 

‘^I love this woman more than my office — more than the 
duty I have sworn — the faith I have cherished. Not only is 
she the temptress of my life, but a heretic according to the 
Church I serve, and yet for her I would resign all that I have 
hitherto looked upon as highest and noblest on earth.” 

That was what his confession must amount to. That was 


KITTY THE RAO. 


333 


what he was bound to pour into the ears of one of the strictest 
zealots and most austere dignitaries of the Church. 

All day he had shut himself up in his study, his mind 
vibrating between two courses. The passionate dream of 
that terrible night and the realities of this ensuing day waged 
an incessant conflict. The one called him down to earth with 
sweetest tempting, the other waved him back to duty at 
heaven’s stern behest. 

His own will and Hermia’s will — his own misery and her 
helplessness kept his mind wavering in the balance, while his 
soul poured itself out in agonized entreaties for guidance and 
for aid. 

But none came. Flesh and spirit were left to wage the in- 
evitable conflict that sooner or later a man’s life demands. 

Afar off stood the good and evil angels of his destiny, but 
neither whisper of encouragement nor prophecy of doom was 
breathed in his ear. 

Toward evening he rose from his knees, spent and exhausted 
by those fearful hours. He knew his helplessness at last — he 
looked back at that old self, high-strung to highest purpose, 
full of sacrifice and determination — and he looked down in 
contrast on this new self, grown out of an hour’s wild, unre- 
strained passion, ready to give up all its best for sake of all its 
worst. 

For thus looked human love now, when the identity of the 
lover had once again been sunk in the obligations of the priest. 

Yet love was sweet — oh, how sweet he had never known till 
he had held to his heart once again the one woman who had 
been its interpreter ! 

What joy to forget this dark and evil past — this conflict be- 
tween Godhead and manhood — this never-ceasing, torturing 
struggle of soul and sense, and in her arms re-live the hopes of 
youth ! 

He groaned aloud as in that bare and lonely room he pic- 
tured that promised happiness. For well he knew it needed 
but a word from him to claim its fulfilment. This woman he 
loved was no niggard giver. Her bounty, her wealth, her 
loveliness had all been laid at his feet. 

He went backward step by step into the depths of his heart, 
and asked himself whether the wrong he had once done could 
best be righted by his present self-surrender. 

But the question flashed swift answer to his soul, and he 
knew he was but adding another wrong to that already com- 


334 


£:iTTy TEE BAG, 


mitted. ** I have put my hand to the plough. I have worked 
for God’s glory. I have rescued sinful souls. I have been 
given a just and holy work to do — shall I turn back now? ” he 
cried, and as he so cried, his eyes fell on the ivory crucifix 
hanging on the wall above that prie-dieu where he had knelt 
during many a self-torturing hour. 

The martyred face, the helpless figure touched him with a 
sudden passion of remorse. “Hast Thou suffered and died 
for me, O Christ, and shall I do naught for Thee? ” he cried. 
“Oh, I am ashamed of my unworthy thoughts, of my luke- 
warm service.” 

Then without giving himself time for further hesitation he 
went forth through the falling dusk and the falling rain to that 
ordeal of confession and reproof which would deservedly be 
his fate at the hands of his spiritual father, the bishop. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


335 


CHAPTER LI. 

It was long past midnight when the priest returned. The 
paralysis of will had been accomplished. A physical and 
moral collapse had taken the place of his former fevered and 
wavering condition. 

The gloved hand had been very gentle, but he had felt the 
pressure of the steel beneath ; he had learnt that persuasion 
and coercion are words with but slightly dissimilar meaning 
under certain circumstances. 

He had confessed his sin ; he had related its history from 
beginning to end ; he had thrown the responsibility of decision 
from off his own shoulders, and now ensued that period of 
peace after storm which was the natural reaction of that 
violent conflict. 

One promise he had given ; never, if known power could 
prevent it, to see Hermia again. He might write and tell her 
of his changed decision — that at least was her due — but on 
the morrow he was to leave this part of Ireland for another 
and more remote district where his labors would be hard, 
and any chance of communication with Hermia almost impos- 
sible. 

Late as was the hour, and weak and spent as he was, he yet 
felt that sleep or rest was impossible until he had sent that 
message to her. 

It was a crisis of life and feeling, and he had worked him- 
self up to that pitch of self-abnegation which has often made 
men embrace a spiritual spouse more enthusiastically than they 
would an earthly one. 

Yet when he took up his pen and traced that one beloved 
name for what he felt must be the last time, it seemed to him 
the hardest task ever appointed him. 

The religion of self-repression, chastity, pain, lost its former 
glow of attraction as he thought of the suffering he was about 
to inflict on the one human thing he loved. 

Hermia, my beloved,” he wrote, forgive the pain I must 
inflict upon you. Hermia, what we dreamt of cannot be. The 
curse and not the blessing of heaven would be mine did I, even 


336 


KITTY THE BAG. 


for sake of your sweet love, turn traitor to my order and my 
God. For twelve long hours I have battled with the prompt- 
ings of the flesh ; in fasting and in prayer have I fought out 
my fight at the foot of the Cross, and now at last the victory is 
not mine but God’s. From this hour look upon me as one 
dead, and give me such pity and forgiveness as such a one might 
claim. For of earthly love and earthly joy I shall know no 
more ; such is the will of God made plain before my sight. 
And you, Hermia, — you will acknowledge some day that it is 
best we part. Perchance you may yet soften our child's heart 
and win her love. In that hour plead for me and my for- 
giveness. It is the last boon I ask of life or earth. For how 
can she help loving you, my Hermia, when her first anger and 
shame have given place to the promptings of duty and com- 
passion ? You will have your fill of human joy and sorrow. 
I would that I could have led you to the foot of that cross 
where I have laid my burden and my sin — I would that on 
your bruised soul might fall the balm of consolation ; so might 
I take with me the blessed hope of our reunion, and in that 
hope live gladly the brief span of life I feel will be my 
lot. . . . Hermia — in our wild vows and reckless passion you 
remembered not the awful barrier that lay between us. . . . 
On my head lies the shame of a father’s crime — on yours 
would fall the shadow of its awful memory. Think of this, 
my one beloved on earth, and acknowledge with me that the 
sin of the past would have been as nothing before the sin of 
the future. And now farewell — word of bitterness and woe 
that again and again it has been our fate to utter. In a grave 
of eternal silence I bury this earthly love. It is God’s will — 
so best ! ” 

The tears of a man’s agony blotted these last words, but the 
hand that wrote them was firm as the purpose of his broken 
heart. 

Of such are the sacrifices best loved of heaven ! 


That letter lay unopened among many others while Hermia 
lay in her darkened room battling for life. Very, very near 
came the grim shadow for which she humbly prayed ; very 
closely hovered the brooding wings of that dread angel whom 
alike we call upon, and shun. 

But though it sat upon the threshold of that dreary house it 


KITTY THE BAG, 


337 


did not cross it. After many days the weary eyes looked back 
on life once more, and the dulled brain awoke to the conscious- 
ness of pain and the hopelessness of fate. 

Slowly strength returned, and memory awoke. 

Then she remembered what lay behind her in the past, and 
before her in the future. An uneasy sense of the promise she 
had exacted haunted her incessantly. Where was Eugene — 
did he know — had he been there ? 

Her glance wandered uneasily to the face of Judith Mon- 
tressor. 

‘‘Have any letters, any messages, come for nre?” she 
asked. 

“Several letters, dearest," said her friend. “ But you are 
scarcely strong enough to read them yet. Probably they are 
of no importance." 

“Let me see them, Judith," she entreated, and the sudden 
flush on her cheek, the feverish brightness of her eyes, warned 
Judith that opposition might be as imprudent as concession. 
She went over to the writing-table in the window, and brought 
back a packet of letters and papers that had been laid there as 
they arrived. 

Hermia turned them over with rapid fingers. At one she 
paused. The postmark was Limerick ; some instinct told her 
from whom it came. 

She threw the others aside and lay back on her pillows and 
opened it. 

Judith moved over to the window. She did not wish to seem 
watchful or intrusive. In the silence she heard the rustling of 
the paper, then a sharp, quick cry. 

She turned at once. Hermia lay like death. The letter 
had fallen from her unconscious hand. Terrified and angry at 
her own imprudence, Judith rushed to her side, and did her 
utmost to revive her. The nurse had gone downstairs to tea, 
and for a moment or two she wondered whether it would be 
best to summon her, or act on her own responsibility. But 
Hermia soon revived, and even in her relief Judith was glad 
that no curious eyes or ears were beside her. 

“The letter!" she cried, “the letter!" and seized it 
eagerly, and then turned her head away and lay there 
silent and pale, the tears streaming slowly down her cheek. 
Judith murmured lender words of soothing, but she took no 
heed. 

“ Leave me alone," she entreated. 

22 


“ My sorrow is beyond 


338 


KITTY THE RAG. 


all human aid. Let me bear it in silence and solitude, I be- 
seech you.” 

Judith withdrew into the dressing-room adjoining, leaving 
the door partly open. The mystery of Hermia’s illness and 
suffering lay with that letter, she felt assured. Would it ever 
be explained ? 

It was not mere feminine curiosity that tormented her, but 
the curiosity of interest and fear. Something terrible must 
have happened on that night which was to have been their last 
at Mount Moira. This illness — the change both in the woman 
and the girl — how were they to be accounted for? 

She sat by the fire in that inner room listening to the low 
faint sobs that from time to time broke the stillness. They 
were agony to her, but she felt that they might be relief to the 
aching heart of that suffering woman. When at last they 
ceased, she stole softly in. Hermia had fallen asleep from 
sheer exhaustion — the letter on which her tears had rained was 
clasped to her breast. 


Hours had passed. Again and again had the patient 
watcher crept into the darkened room. Long since she had 
ordered the nurse to remain downstairs until summoned, but 
she herself had remained within call. 

Intense silence reigned throughout the house. Not a foot- 
fall but was subdued by the encasement of slippers — not a 
voice but was hushed to a whisper. In prayerful thankfulness 
Judith listened to the soft, regular breathing, and counted the 
passage of each long hour. Sleep was food and medicine to 
that exhausted system and that wearied brain. She hailed it 
as surest and best sign of recovery. 

She lit the lamp in the dressing-room as the darkness in- 
creased. From time to time she fed the fire with wood which 
she carried in piece by piece. Seven o’clock — eight o’clock 
— then nine struck softly from the distance. Still the sleeper 
slept on, and the patient watcher waited. 

At last she started up. A faint voice cried, ‘‘Judith — are 
you there ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, dearest,” she said cheerfully, and entered, carrying 
the lamp. Its shaded rays showed her Hermia’s face, calm 
and composed to patient sadness — her eyes wore once more 
their old look of welcome. 


KIITY THE BAG. 


339 


** What is the time? " she asked. “ I feel so much better. 
I seem to have been asleep for weeks." Her glance wandered 
from Judith’s anxious face and fell on the letter still clasped in 
her hand. 

She looked at it with puzzled eyes. Then — memory re- 
turned — and pain stabbed her sharply once again. 

“ Oh, I remember now," she said faintly. “ Come and sit 
by me, Judith, and let me tell you all ; for I can bear it in 
silence no longer." 

You shall tell me what you please, dearest," said Judith 
gently, ** if you will first take some nourishment. It is hours 
since you have had anything, and nurse was in despair." 

“Give me what you please," said Hermia resignedly. “It 
is not fair to cause you more trouble and anxiety than have 
already been your lot. I am going to be good and obedient 
now, Judith ; I want to get well, for my work is not yet done. 
There is a grave duty to perform before life and I say good-bye 
to one another." 

An hour later Judith Montressor had heard everything. 
Pained and shocked and grieved as she had never yet been 
grieved, she held the suffering woman’s hand and listened to 
her broken confession. 

Yet her heart held only compassion. It seemed to her that 
/lerg, at least, the sin had been more than atoned for by its 
punishment. She could only murmer again, “A broken 
and a contrite heart, O God, Thou dost not despise." 

Broken indeed was Hermia Ellingsworth’s pride — contrite 
indeed that suffering heart. 

“I have sinned — I have suffered — my punishment is just,” 
she cried. “ Yet, Judith, I never meant to be bad — I never 
thought ’’ 

She stopped abruptly. “Do you know," she said, “that 
Kitty hates me? She looks on me only as her enemy. There 
lies my cross, Judith ... a heavy one indeed. To others 
motherhood may come as a divine gift — to me it can be but 
one long humiliation." 

“You must not expect too much from her at first," said 
Judith. “She has inherited a fair share of your pride, and 
think what you would have felt under similar circumstances." 

“ I loved my mother well enough to forgive her anything." 

“Yes, but you loved her as a child loves. A child to whom 
wrong and right are merely ends leading to reward or dis- 
pleasure. Kitty has no such softening memories to counter- 


340 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


balance her hot young anger. She feels she has been wronged. 
But in time she will also learn to forgive that wrong.” 

think,” murmured the stricken woman, that there is 
no sacrifice I would not make to win that forgiveness ; only 
once to feel my child’s arms round me, and hear her voice say : 

‘ Mother, I will try to love you.’ ” 

*‘More impossible things have happened,” said Judith 
gently. <‘The girl is much changed. She is gentler and 
graver than I have ever known her. Sometimes I fancy that 
she is learning life’s great lesson — Love. She is most anxious 
about you, and to-day, when I told her that long-hoped-for 
sleep had come at last, I saw the tears in her eyes. She went 
away to her room and locked herself in. I believe she is 
there still.” 

Hermia sighed. <‘Will she ever seek me of her own ac- 
cord — will she ever come to me as a daughter to her mother? ” 

There was a momentary silence. It held a prayer that 
scarcely hoped for answer, and yet — was it an answer that came 
in a sudden hesitating knock — a timid voice — a soft inquiry 
for admission ? 

Judith Montressor stood for a moment holding open the 
door, and her eyes turned wonderingly to the agitated face of 
Kitty. 

“You may come in, certainly,” she said. “But she is 
very weak and ill. She cannot bear much agitation.” 

Then she closed the door and left them. 

There was a moment’s silence. The deathly pale face on 
the pillows looked half in fear at the approaching figure. 
Her heart-beats quickened to those loud painful throbs that the 
least agitation had of late occasioned. 

The girl stood beside her and looked down, her eyes shining 
through, a mist of tears, her whole face quivering with emo- 
tion. 

“ What is it, Kitty? ” asked Hermia faintly. 

“I have come to tell you something,” faltered the girl. 
She held out her hand as she spoke. * * Do you remember 
this?” she said. 

Hermia looked vaguely at the little ivory and silver trifle 
that lay in the pretty pink palm. 

“ No,” she said, “ what is it ? ” 

“It is — something,” said Kitty in a low, breathless voice, 
“that has made me ashamed of my rudeness and ingratitude 
to you. ... It is something that I once promised you I would 


KITTY THE BAG. 


341 


keep for ever. You remember that day in the ruins — when 
you were so kind to me ? . . . I could tell you now the very 
words you said, and how you seemed to me as an angel from 
heaven. ... I have kept this ever since. When I went to 
school I took it with me. I had forgotten it for many years — 
but it lay safe in my own little desk, and I found it there an 
hour ago. I don’t know what made me go to it, or open it. 
I was waiting to hear of you . . . they said this sleep meant 
life or death ” 

** And did you care which it would prove, Kitty? ” 

cared so much that I — I prayed you might recover. I 
begged of God not to let you die until I could come to you. 
I only wanted to say, * Forgive me ! ... I will try to do my 
duty — I will try to love you — mother! ” 

“Kitty! Kitty I this is not you speaking. I am dream- 
ing.” 

“No . . . no!” cried the girl choking back her sobs. 
“ It is I indeed.” 

“And you called me — mother. . . . The name has a 
strange sound, my child — I have waited for it so many years.” 

“You shall wait for it no more. I will say it again, and 
again, and yet again — the sweetest word in the world to me 
now — Mother ! ’ ' 

“Ah, not with your lips, child, but with your heart. That 
will mean life to me again. I nearly gave mine for yours, 
Kitty — once; but now, ah now, you have repaid the debt.” 

“Oh, I have been vile, vile; wicked beyond all words ! 
You can’t forget the awful things I said ; the way I have 
treated you.” 

“I can forgive everything, Kitty, everything. Only put 
your arms round me, and kiss me as my child at last.” 

Then in silence and tears, those long-estranged lips met, and 
in that meeting all was pardoned. 


342 


KITTY THE EAO. 


CHAPTER LII. 

No greater magician is there in all the world than love, and 
love it was that had broken down all the wilfulness and 
pride and antagonism of Kitty. 

It had come to her suddenly and in strange guise, as 
antagonist, not as friend, but all the same it had come, and 
all the meaning of life was changed for her. 

Sorrow no longer filled the air, resentment no longer 
filled her heart and made her eyes sullen and her words 
rebellious. A magic wand had struck the stony rock, and 
at last the waters gushed forth. Her past seemed now as 
a hateful dream, and she herself looked in her own sight as 
its most hateful figure. 

A new existence dawned for her from the hour that 
that stern rebuke had shamed her in her own eyes, and in 
the eyes of the one being whose good opinion she had craved. 

Crushed and humbled she had avoided him for days. 
When they met again she was cold and haughty, but he 
treated her with such grave and gentle courtesy that pride 
was soon disarmed. Step by step he forced each barrier 
she raised, telling her plain truths with a frankness that in 
any other man but an Irishman would have seemed positively 
rude. 

She was very lonely and very unhappy. She grew to fear 
her own society, and to long for his. Even scolding and re- 
buke grew sweet when he was their exponent, and certainly a 
stranger courtship was never carried on. 

By fits and starts the old Kitty would crop up in rebellion, 
but she had found a master and she had to acknowledge 
the mastery. From the eerie shadows of her uncertain fate 
had sprung a great and wonderful joy. To be loved, cared 
for, considered, to feel that for one human being she was 
all-important, these were novelties indeed ; and she let 
herself be captured by them with a sudden passionate 
relief, a feeling that at last the cruel chains of circumstance 
were falling from her limbs, that she was free to love and re- 
joice, to turn from remorseful memories to timid hopes. 


KITTY THE BAG. 


343 


Laurence Moira noted and exulted manlike in the 
change. She was so lovely in this new shyness, in her 
changeful moods, her girlish petulance, that to tease and 
soothe, to rebuke and praise became the most delightful of 
tasks. He was not sure that he was in love, but he knew that 
she loved him, and the duty he had set himself grew corre- 
spondingly easy. 

Kitty’s consciousness of her own deficiencies made her 
humble before his corrections. She began to see life 
through his eyes, and it bore a very different meaning to 
what her own immature judgment had lent it. 

He showed her that she had no right to blame her 
mother’s ignorance of her existence for the hardships of 
that existence, and even those hardships took a new face 
upon them as his eloquence painted Biddy’s tender care and 
unfailing love. Were not these things to be grateful for? he 
asked. 

Then in the long days of anxiety that followed their first 
quarrel he persuaded her to accompany him in his visits to the 
poor and wretched homes of those among whom he worked. 
He showed her, by contrast with these, the fortunate condi- 
tions of her own lot, and in thinking of the miseries of others 
she ceased to brood over the all-importance of her own. 

And as she saw him among these people, cheering, en- 
couraging, helping them, never impatient, never hopeless, 
speaking as man to man, with a wide comprehension both 
of faults and virtues, she could not but admire and reverence 
his character. Everywhere she heard his praises ; every 
humble homestead had something to tell ; blessings followed 
his footsteps, and hope awoke at his presence. It was little 
wonder he became a hero in her sight, and the higher grew 
her estimate of him the less she thought of herself. 

And at last he spoke of love — and into her heart flowed 
the gracious healing stream that was henceforth to baptize her 
to new life. She fell at Love’s feet conquered and abased, she 
gained at Love’s hands the regeneration of womanhood. 

For happy, lonely days they kept their secret : he half 
wondering at her every-increasing charm — proud with a 
lover’s pride — yet gently masterful as best suited her way- 
ward moods ; cold at times that she might grow humble, 
humble at times that she might grow proud of her conquest. 

The girlhood in her was triumphant, but the womanhood 
made her very meek. For at last she had learnt her lesson. 


344 


KITTY THE BAG. 


Love had made her understand. It had opened the book 
of her soul, and forced her to read what once she had 
scorned and derided. Her lover’s lips had kissed her out 
of the sleep of ignorance. She could no longer sit in 
judgment on another. She could but fall before the judg- 
ment seat and cry : “So might I have been, had he I loved 
been less worthy.” 

And this was the Kitty who stole penitent and remorse- 
ful to her mother’s side while yet the wings of the Death 
Angel hovered over the threshold she crossed. 

This was the child — who comprehending at last what 
Love may be and Love may do, cast pride and anger away 
for ever — and saw no longer a sinner but a martyr, in the 
suffering woman by whose side she knelt. 


Slowly, very slowly, Hermia crept back on the path of re- 
covery. But her mind was at rest. The burden of past years 
was flung off at last. A child’s love, a faithful friend’s devo- 
tion, were these not things to be glad for still ? 

But it was a very tremulous and chastened gladness with 
which she greeted returning life, and armed herself to face its 
duties. 

As yet she knew nought of Kitty’s secret. Her lover had 
persuaded her to keep it until he should see Hermia again. 

He felt the knowledge would come better from his lips, 
and his will was law to the once rebellious girl. So when 
Hermia was at last allowed downstairs his opportunity came. 

The New Year had come and gone. Warm soft mists and 
gentle rains were the heralds of coming spring. The sun- 
shine was already at work, drawing scents of peat and moss 
and wild flowers from out the moist earth. The air had the 
touch of velvet, so warm it was and soft on this west coast. 

Lady Ellingsworth came into the familiar rooms like a 
wan ghost revisiting past scenes, and Laurence Moira as 
he looked at her changed face, and read its sorrow, and its 
ended joys, felt that for her the spring of hope was for ever 
past. Never had he felt such pity or such reverence as now 
he felt for her. But it was only the reverence- she read as he 
took her hand, and in brief words told her his tale. 

Silently she listened. She knew only too well she could 
have desired no better fate for her child, but — she asked her- 
cjelf — did he know ? 


KITTY TEE BAG. 


345 


She turned and looked at him. 

“There could be but one answer,” she said, “ to such a re- 
quest as yours, but first I have something to tell you — some- 
thing that ” 

“ That I know already,” he said softly. “ Can I put more 
plainly the honor that is mine, when I say that to be Kitty’s 
lover is less to me, than to be your child’s husband? ” 

Wondering and incredulous she rose to her feet and stood 
before him, her white face and trembling lips betraying her 
agitation. 

“Do you know what that means?” she asked. “Have 
you counted the cost of what you do ? Have you thought of 
your name — of what will be said ? ” 

“ I have thought of all,” he said. “It is not only that I 
love Kitty, but I reverence you more than words can say. 
There is no need to say more. My wife is safe from any 
breath of shame, and her mother’s honor is mine ! ” 

She sank back in her chair, and covered her face with her 
hands. 

“ I don’t deserve that you should save me,” she said; “ I 
am prepared to pay the penalty of my sin. And Kitty ” 

“ Kitty thinks as I do,” he said. “ Are you not satisfied ? 
There is no need for further suffering. God knows you have 
borne enough. And a mistake is no sin — do not blame 
yourself so harshly. Take some hope, some comfort at 
last. Believe me, you have one true friend who will never 
hear a word in your disfavor. The past is dead, — let us bury 
it in the grave of this old dead year. No one need attend the 
funeral except ourselves. Why should we bare our grief to an 
unsympathizing world? Ah, don’t weep. . . . Surely there 
have been tears enough shed by all of us ! ” 

“All?” she echoed, and looked wonderingly at the young 
pitying face. 

<< Yes — all,” he said very low. “ For are not your sorrows 
mine — now'? ” 

She held out her hand, and with something of that spirit of 
chivalry she had always kindled in his heart he dropped on 
one knee by her side, and raised it to his lips. 


A month later Hermia stood again in the familiar library of 
Knockrea. She was still very weak and fragile, and strength 
seemed slow to return, On the morrow she and Kitty were 


346 


KITTY THE BAG. 


leaving Ireland for that long-postponed visit to Italy. She had 
come over to the house to give final directions and orders. On 
their return Kitty was to marry Laurence Moira, and Hermla 
herself, accompanied by Judith Montressor, intended going to 
Australia for some years. 

She stood now by the writing-table, gazing mournfully at its 
worn surface and closed drawers. More than anything else 
this one piece of furniture always brought back her father’s 
memory to her. 

She thought of that mysterious letter he had left, and me- 
chanically opened the drawer where she had placed it. There 
it lay, sealed with the well-known seal, holding in tantalizing 
secrecy the mystery of his strange actions. 

Could it tell her more, she wondered, than she already 
knew ; would it ever throw light on his reasons for casting her 
out of love and home and giving her place to another? 

With a sigh she replaced the packet in its drawer, and half 
mechanically began to open the others. Some were empty, 
some contained letters, memoranda, all the useless and useful 
accumulation of busy years. One after another she closed and 
locked them. A slight difficulty with the last of the row made 
her use some force. The lock was stiff and the key refused to 
turn it; half impatient she pulled the drawer out, and sat 
down to examine it. To her surprise she saw that it was about 
half the length of any of the others. Stooping her head she 
looked into the recess from which she had taken it ; then 
thrust her hand into the hollow and felt the smooth panel at 
the back. A little unevenness caught her finger. She pressed 
it and felt the point yield ; then with roused curiosity she 
peered into the aperture and saw a gleam of something white. 
She drew out a packet of letters tied with faded ribbon. 
With some wonder she turned them over. Her own name 
caught her sight, prefaced by terms of passionate endearment. 

She glanced at the signature. It was unknown to her. 

Then she remembered her name had also been her mother’s; 
these must be old love letters of hers, but assuredly they were 
not written by her father. 

She placed them reverently together. She felt she had no 
right to read what was never meant for her eyes. As she was 
fastening the old ribbon it suddenly broke, and in collecting 
the scattered sheets once more her eyes fell on a date. It was 
the year of her own birth. 

Startled by such a discovery, she Risked herself wonderingly 


KITTY THE BAG. 


347 


how such letters could have been written to her mother at that 
period of her married life. 

They were not her husband’s, and yet they were written as 
only a husband was entitled to write. 

Feeling instinctively that some mystery lay within this 
strangely discovered packet, she took up the one with that in- 
criminating date, and began to read it. 

What a history it revealed — hopeless love, wasted passion ; 
fierce struggles between duty and desire, wild woe; impas- 
sioned beseeching, the history of past meetings, the hope of 
future ones. 

The blood in Hermia’s veins seemed turning to ice as she 
read. Her mother — the mother she had adored with all her 
childish soul — was she indeed what these letters seemed to in- 
dicate — a false wife ? 

Her heart stood still with the shock of that moment. 

She recalled that face she had worshipped ; the clear, true 
eyes, the tender smile, the pathetic curves of the mouth. . . . 

Oh ! it was impossible that she could have been guilty, that 
she could have brought dishonor on husband and children ; 
and yet faithlessness of heart was here, and plain to read . . . 
and the date . . . that fatal date. The memory of her fath- 
er’s coldness and dislike flashed back to Hermia’s mind with 
the new interpretation of this hateful discovery. No wonder 
he had scarcely regarded her as his child, if these letters had 
come to hand at her mother’s death. No wonder that in her 
own girlish folly he had traced the curse of heredity. He had 
kept the secret well, for never had breath of scandal attached 
itself to his beautiful wife ; but all the same the iron of suspi- 
cion must have entered into his soul, and filled it with a stern, 
relentless purpose. 

Now, at last, she understood the meaning of that will. 
Now, at last, she saw why the child, born of her own shame, 
had been made the instrument of her own punishment. 

Long brooding over a scheme of vengeance had perfected 
it as cruelly as his nature could perfect it. Coldly and unre- 
servedly he had given himself up to the task of visiting on the 
child the unproved guilt of the mother. 

Hermia remembered how her young lover had been ban- 
ished. How she had been forced into an unwelcome marriage. 
How all her life she had been made to feel the iron hand of a 
despotic and merciless tyrant. 

In the bitterness of shame and misery such as never yet had 


348 


KITTY THE BAG. 


visited her life, she crushed those fatal letters in her hand, and 
gazed wildly round as if for some means of destroying them. 

A moment and there lay in the open grate but a heap of dull 
grey ashes, and by them knelt a woman — her head bowed in 
the dust of agonized humiliation. From out the shadowy past 
this two-edged sword had been stretched to pierce her heart — 
to bring her to her knees in this new garden of Gethsemane. 

Just Thou art, O God ! and justly hast Thou dealt,” she 
cried aloud. *‘But . . . now — for Christ’s dear sake re- 
member mercy ... for I can bear no more. ...” 

And then perhaps in that comprehensive tenderness that 
never earthly love has yet attained, the mercy for which she 
prayed was remembered unto her. 

Her limbs grew weak — the glow faded out of cheek and lip 
as a flame that sinks down amidst decaying embers. One 
feeble effort she made to raise herself — but it was vain. She 
fell face forwards on the floor, where still that ominous stain 
marked with terrible distinctness the tragedy of her father’s 
fate. 


L’ENVOI. 


And so ended Philip Marsden’s scheme of vengeance. 

The letters he had forgotten, and long before laid by in 
their secret hiding-place, were the only letters that revealed 
to his ill-fated daughter what he had determined she should 
learn in quite another way. 

Long before the date fixed for opening that mysterious 
document about which he had taken so many precautions, 
Kitty had married her chivalrous young lover and never a hint 
or word was given as to whose child she was. 

On the day when she entered into possession of Knockrea 
she had also given to that ill-fated abode an heir prospective, 
and in presence of mother and child Hermia’s trustees, Lau- 
rence Moira and Dr. Garrick, burnt that unopened letter. 

With its destruction a wave of good fortune seemed to have 
swept away the melancholy and disasters of the past. The 
busybodies naturally gave their own interpretation to the 
strange will ; but as Kitty’s popularity increased, so did their 
charity and good will, and she was universally declared to be 
Philip Marsden’s lawful child. 

When she made over poor Biddy’s cottage to her two old 
cronies, the Red Hen and the Swan, every one had a good 
word for her, and the old seeress forgot to utter dismal prophe- 
cies, and kept an ever-ready stock of blessings on hand for the 
rapidly increasing members of the Knockrea nurseries. 

There was no more popular landlord in the district than 
Laurence Moira, and no sweeter or more gracious helpmeet 
was ever given to man than his young wife. 

“For love of you I love every human thing,” she would 
say;, and accepting the sweet flattery not as his due but as her 
bounty, Laurence Moira goes his way with a thankful heart. 

Surely the best thing in life to carry within us, sad toilers 
in a vale of tears as we know ourselves to be ! 


FINIS. 


Press Opinion on 


Lindsay’s Qirl 


By MRS. HERBERT MARTIN 


12ni0f Cloth f $1,25 } Paper Covers, 50 Cents, 


San Francisco Chronicle 

“ Lindsay’s Girl,” a novel, by Mrs. Herbert Martin, is somewhat 
out of the beaten path of imaginative story writing. There is little 
romance in it. It is the story of the daughter born out of wedlock 
of an English gentleman of position and wealth who has separated 
from his wife. She is reared by her father in a luxurious country 
home and almost without female companionship. The secret of 
her birth is kept from her until after the death oi her father. She 
is sincere, unpolished and independent, and the story depicts her 
struggles with herself and the world, and her final triumph 
through innate purity and sense of duty. Valentine Lindsay, 
or “Lindsay’s Girl,” is a strong character. In some respects it is 
new in fiction, and as it is natural, consistent and altogether 
human, we give it welcome. 



Daireen 

F. FRANKFORT MOORE 



Illustrated, 2ino, Cloth, $1.5 / Paper Covers, 50 Cents, 


Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer 

“ Daireen,” by Frank Frankfort Moore, is a novel that will be 
intensely enjoyed by the large class who like plenty of incident of 
the dramatic sort, and plenty of character to match, with a gener- 
ous spicing of love and cross purposes. The quieter student of 
character and of history will like best the first chapters that intro- 
duces us to O’Dermots who, in all the pride of an heriditary King 
of Munster, and with such pomp as the degenerated times and 
conditions allow, lives in the tumbling down old castle at Innish- 
dermot. It is an amusing picture, albeit a pitiful one— that of the 
old Irishman trying to keep up the dignity of his ancestors. But 
the love story, a very pretty one it is, soon sweeps us away from 
the Irish hills to a voyage to Cape Town. The voyage itself holds 
a large place in the story, for the beautiful Irish heroine, who is as 
free from the world’s guile as a bird, is placed in the care of a de- 
signing old Major’s wife who thinks it her duty to make a desira- 
ble match for her before she reaches her father in the distant 
colony ; and she makes a fine muddle of it all, for the real lover is 
the Macnamara’s son, who, unknown to them all, has shipped on 
the vessel as a sailor, for the sole purpose of being near her. It all 
works itself out at the Cape, in the curious and deversified society 
to be found there. 


R. F. FENNO & COnPANY, 113 Fifth Ave., N. Y. 


A Few Press Opinions on 


The Betrayal of John Fordham 

By B. L FARJEON 

12niOf Clothf $1,25 f Paper Covevj 50 Cent* 


Saturday Evening Gazette 

The plot is well constructed, the story is well told, and there is 
enough of mystery to satisfy the most exacting reader. 

New Orleans Picayune 

Mr. Farjeon’s new novel is a striking piece of work. It is the 
story of a man who is deceived into a marriage with a woman who 
is a victim of confirmed dipsomania. The horror of the situation 
proves almost too much for him. He falls in love with a good little 
woman, who learns eventually to love him. But before they are 
happily married the hero is charged falsely with having murdered 
his half-brother. The accusation is cleared up by a detective, but 
not until after many strange and stirring things have come to pass. 
Tike all of Mr. Farjeon’s works, it is interesting in a high degree. 

Boston Times 

“The Betrayal of John Fordham” is a new story by B. T. Far- 
jeon. It is of the detective order, full of murder and innummer- 
able wrongs that became, at length, righted, and the much abused 
hero comes to happiness as the curtain falls. The working out of 
the plot, combined with peculiar incidents makes the story worth 
reading, especially if one likes a detective story, Almost everyone 
does, for a change. 

5an Francisco Chronicle 

Running through the story are the threads of one or two affairs 
of the heart, which are woven into pleasant conclusions. Some of 
the scenes are stirringly dramatic. (New York ; R. F. Fenno & 
Co.; price 50 cents.) 

New Haven Journal 

A new book, which, like the preceding ones from the pen of 
the same author, is a strong story and which promises to be exten- 
sively read, is B. T. Farjeon’s new novel, “ The Betrayal of John 
Fordham.” 

Brooklyn Eagle 

The plot is intricate and deeply involved and dramatically and 
skillfully worked out. 


R. F. FENNO & COMPANY, 112 Fifth Ave., N. Y, 


A Few Press Opinions on 

A Living Lie 

By PAUL BOURGET 

12niOf Cloth, $1.25 } JPajper Covers, 50 cents. 


Scotsman 

Mr. de Vallieres’ translation leaves nothing to be desired, and 
deserves the thanks of English readers for having rendered acces- 
sible to them a masterpiece of minute analysis of character and 
feeling. 

Pall Hall Gazette 

M. Bourget’s celebrated novel. ... It is good to find a transla- 
tion of a popular French novel so well done as this is, and the 
vivid picture of Parisian life loses nothing of its force or truth in 
its English dress. 

World 

“ Mensonges ” is undoubtedly a clever story, and the present ver- 
sion is excellent. 

Vanity I air 

The book itself is an education : the very greatest novel of analy- 
sis and character France has produced since Balzac. 

New York Commercial Advertiser 

“ A Eiving Ivie,” published in this country by Fenno, is one of 
the earlier works of Paul Burget, and one that shows both the 
weakness and strength of his methods. In an introduction written 
to the transtlation, the author speaks of his humble decipleship of 
Flaubert and Zola, and perhaps none of Bourget’s novels better 
than this recent translation will show better how closely the stu- 
dent has followed the masters, especially the former. But one 
man could write “Madame Borany,” and that was Flaubert, but 
there are portions of “ Mensonges ’* that would lead one to believe 
that M. Bourget thought that he might have written it himself. 
Madame Borany’s meeting with her lover in a house of ill-fame 
and Rene’s meetings with his mistress might even seem to some 
as an illustration of where the pupil had learned his lesson too 
well. 

As for the story itself there is no need of rehearsing that. It is 
strong, and viewed from the point of fiction is good. But since M. 
Bourget aspires to be something more than novelist, to be an an- 
alysist, a psychologist and feminologist, it would be wrong to ig- 
nore what he considers his best labor. Perhaps it would not be 
malapropos to quote, in relation to M. Bourget’s study of women 
and women’s mind, what Nietzsche has written, that we are puz- 
zled when we try to probe women’s mind, not because it is so deep, 
not because it has no bottom — “it is not even shallow.’’ Which is 
basely cynical, and anyway it was written by a man who is 
now in a mad house. .But, nevertheless, it is a good sentence to 
bear in mind when one is reading the works of a feminologist. 
There is no doubt of M. Bourget’s intuitive powers. True, that 
too frequently does he affirm with unbecoming and exultant de- 
light and misplaced passion that two and two are four, but often 
this leads to tne higher and more complicated problems, such as 
four and four are eight. Surely M. Bourget is an analyst, but he 
spends too much time analyzing very obvious brick walls. 

But, “ A Living Lie ” is good fiction, if it is not good literature. 
It is well translated. 


R. F. FENNO & COMPANY, 112 Fifth Ave., N. Y, 








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